Pleasant Dreams
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: AU that branches off from 12x03, The Foundry. Sam has always suffered from nightmares, but they're about to get much, much worse. Can Dean protect him from their enemies—both old and new?
1. The Nightmare

_**Author's Note:**_ _This was begging for me to write it, and naturally, I couldn't resist. Enjoy!_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _Supernatural isn't mine. I'm just another devoted fan._

 **SPN**

It took a moment for Sam to wake up, roused by some subtle change in his room that he might not have noticed without years of training. The lights were dim, and he was lying face down on his comfortable memory-foam mattress. In the bunker. Safe. He strained his ears, listening for a sound—any sound—that might explain his alarm, but all was quiet. Too quiet. The silent stillness was heavy and oppressive.

Frowning, Sam rolled onto his side, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. He sat up and glanced around to find her standing by the door. His mom. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater with her hair cut short and a wedding band dangling from a gold chain around her neck. She was so beautiful, and Sam felt a fresh pang in his heart—a hopeful pang—but also a frightened one. "You came back."

"Ssshhh…" She took a step towards him, tender and graceful, like a dream. "It's late, Sammy. Lie down and go back to sleep."

He simply gazed at her, hungry for her presence, distraught by her absence. The past few days had been a roller coaster, to say the least. First, he lost Dean. He thought… with Billie determined to reap them both, he never expected to see his brother again, even in the afterlife. But Dean came for him, and his mom came for him, and they were together again, and for awhile—no, just for a moment—they were happy. But then she left, and she took his dad's journal, and now, Sam and Dean were on their own, and sometimes… sometimes, Sam wondered if he might still be in Toni's basement, suffering from more drug-induced hallucinations. She said he couldn't survive another round, but maybe she was lying.

" _You can't torture someone who has nothing left for you to take away."_

Mary must have seen the uncertainty—the despair—on Sam's face, for she sighed and crossed the rest of the way over to his bed, sitting next to him. Her fingers gently brushed a tear from his eye. "It's okay, sweetheart. I won't be gone forever. I just need some time…" She cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. "I love you."

It occurred to Sam that none of this was real. His mom left. She wouldn't sneak back in for another goodbye, not after slamming the door behind her. He must still be asleep. Dreaming. But that was okay. It was a good dream, and he would take what he could get. "I love you too." He closed his eyes, raising his hand to cover the back of hers. "We need you, mom. You know that, right?"

She didn't answer. Not immediately. They barely knew each other, so it was hard to predict how she would respond to his quiet, desperate plea for acceptance and comfort. She had so much in common with Dean… maybe she wouldn't appreciate his vulnerability.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and affectionate, but her words were bone-chilling. "Oh, Sammy… I can't wait to find your mother. I think I'll burn her alive—if I'm feeling generous."

Her hand remained pressed against his cheek, but her touch suddenly grew cold. Sam flinched, opening his eyes to see her cruel smirk. His stomach dropped and he shied away, scrambling off the bed to cower in the corner. "Who are you?" Déjà vu washed over him as she leaned back on his bed, eyes sparkling in amusement.

"I've missed you, Sam," she confessed, as if they were old friends. "I was in denial for so long, back when I was riding my dear baby brother, but I was wrong." She shrugged. "I'm not perfect. I acknowledge that. In hindsight, perhaps it was foolish to challenge Amara in a back-up vessel. I thought, since Castiel's an angel, he'd be strong enough to suit my needs, but clearly, that's not the case. And now, I'm weaker than ever, playing hot potato with a string of worthless humans, when all I want is stability. Clarity. Would you believe that witch caught me off guard? I haven't been myself, Sam, and I've never been so depressed. The truth is, I'm a wreck, and I need you back. You're the only one who can make things right again."

Sam listened to her speech with a growing weight on his shoulders. He shook his head, trying to keep his nausea at bay. This couldn't be happening… He never told Dean, but when he learned of Castiel's possession, when Lucifer tried to kill him, he was actually relieved. He would rather die—he would rather spend eternity in the deep, dark empty—than find himself back as the devil's most wanted. "No."

His mother smiled, unsurprised. "So we're right back where we started. History always repeats itself. You can't reject me forever, Sam."

"Go to hell!"

She climbed to her feet, and Sam shuddered at the predatory glint in her sharp blue eyes. "I know you're stubborn, roomie, but I am too. So I'm gonna give you one chance to play ball. Say yes, and I promise to spare your mom, your brother, and your brother's boyfriend. I'll even bring your dad back for a nice big family reunion. Say no, and they all die, slowly and painfully."

Sam clenched his jaw. "No."

She crossed her arms. "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. And make no mistake, Sam. I will keep trying. Every night, for as long as it takes. Every time you close your eyes, I'll be waiting to play with you, and the longer you resist, the more you will suffer when I'm finally inside you. Don't test me. I'm losing patience."

Of course, the devil's threats carried far more weight than Toni's. Sam was screwed, but still he braced himself and shook his head. "No."

She clucked her tongue, appraising his body with her penetrating gaze. "You've been healed recently, haven't you? Well, why don't I just undo my brother's handiwork…" She snapped her fingers, and Sam lost his balance as pain flared through his left leg and his right foot. He hit the ground, landing hard on his side, grimacing in agony. Several gashes appeared on his face and chest while a deep cut bloodied his palm.

Lucifer crouched down, leaning over him. "I'll give you a day to reconsider. Trust me, sweetheart. If you refuse, I'll see to it you never have a restful night again." She smiled, running her hand through his hair. "Pleasant dreams."

 **SPN**

Sam woke with a start, gasping for breath. He was back in his bed, covered in blood. His foot was burning, and the pain was paralyzing. "Dean!?"

Tears filled his eyes. The pain he could handle—Toni knew nothing of torture—but the fear, and the helplessness, and the hole in his heart could not be endured. Not alone. "DEAN!"

His brother wasn't coming. After their mom left, he hit the bottle, drinking himself into a stupor.

And Cas wouldn't come either. The angel had yet to return from his hunt for the devil.

Mom… She was gone. He might never see her again.

Right now, only one person had the slightest interest in Sam.

Lucifer.

It was too much.

The next thing he knew, he was curled up with his arms around his legs, and his face buried desperately in his pillow.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	2. The Morning After

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for the overwhelming response to Chapter 1. I was blown away! And since you all asked for more, how could I refuse? So here is Chapter 2. Please keep in mind, I only meant for this story to be a one-shot, so I haven't figured out the ending yet. If you have any thoughts, ideas, insights, etc., I would love to hear from you. Thanks again!_

 **SPN**

Dean woke to a splitting headache and a dry mouth—he could still taste the beer on his tongue, but now, it was seasoned with some kind of fuzz, which made him groan. Damn… How much did he drink last night? And where the hell was he? Considering his high tolerance to alcohol, he rarely got hammered anymore… unless he was out with a girl… experimenting.

He slowly raised his head, glancing around for signs of a companion, only to find himself in his room, on his bed, over the covers, still in yesterday's clothes. He never even got his shoes off. Not a good sign. Disappointing, too.

Light from the hallway streamed in through his open door, which he normally kept shut. He must have been really out of it when he stumbled in last night. Awesome. How the hell was he going to explain this to mom?

Oh. Mom.

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut.

" _I miss my boys."_

" _We're right here, mom."_

" _I know… in my head… but I'm still mourning them, as I knew them. My baby Sam. My little boy Dean. Just feels like yesterday, we were together in heaven, and now… I'm here, and John is gone, and they're gone. And every moment I spend with you reminds me every moment I lost with them… And I thought hunting, working, would clear my head…"_

" _Mom… w-what are you trying to say?"_

" _I have to go… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… I just need a little time… I love you… I love you both…"_

He wasn't entirely sure what happened after that. He vaguely recalled the look on Sam's face, and how the poor kid jumped when the door slammed shut, but he couldn't process the implications. He couldn't process anything but the pain, and the utter disbelief. How could this be happening? Again? He was thirty-seven years old, but in that moment, he never felt more like an abandoned child. Like the first time dad left him in charge, alone with Sam. Eventually, he would take pride in his dad's trust, but way back then, he was still too young, too confused, too distraught. What if dad got hurt? What if he never came back?

What if mom got hurt? What if she never came back?

Dean loved his family. He loved his parents. He tried to act all tough and independent, but deep down, he yearned for them, for their affection and approval. He would do anything for them, but still they left. He was never good enough to keep them. And he never would be. He wasn't even the right age.

No wonder he hit the bottle.

But that was last night. Today, he'd bury it. He'd wear his game face, and get back to business as usual. It was all he could do. It was the only way he knew how to cope.

" _I call it being professional,"_ Frank Devereaux said after Bobby's death all those years ago. _"Do it right, with a smile, or don't do it."_

It still hurt, more than he thought possible, but no one had to know. His pain was his. His alone. And he didn't want to share.

Bracing himself for some dizziness, Dean sat up, and by sheer force of will, fought through the vertigo. He'd kill for some coffee… except… experience assured him it wouldn't help. He was dehydrated. More than anything, he had to drink some water. Eat some food. At least he wasn't throwing up.

He climbed out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, where he relieved himself. Then, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and finally felt like a real person. His head was still throbbing, but what else was new? He could take it.

Trudging into the hallway, he began the short hike to the bunker's kitchen, only to pause outside his brother's door. A shiver ran down his spine. Something felt… off…

Yeah. Their mom ditched them, and left with dad's journal. In a way, it was like losing him all over again. His thoughts, his memories, his wisdom. What were they supposed to do now? Dean grimaced, trying to steel himself.

He couldn't face Sam. Not yet. The kid was bound to broach the subject, and Dean wasn't ready to talk.

No. He would much rather cook breakfast.

Pancakes.

If they had pancakes. Maybe a supply run was in order.

He kept walking, and tried to ignore the strange misgivings that were plaguing his mind.

 **SPN**

It was almost eleven in the morning. The leftover pancakes were growing cold, and there was still no sign of Sam.

Dean sat by himself at the kitchen table, wearing a pensive frown. The silence was heavy and oppressive—almost claustrophobic—like the walls were closing in. Mom and Cas were both gone, and his brother had yet to surface. Sam wasn't normally this reclusive. The silence… It was far too quiet. Dean remembered walking into the bunker with his mom, only to find blood on the floor and his brother absent. Missing.

He didn't like the silence. It was still too soon; Sam's disappearance was fresh in his mind, and he knew better than to trivialize a gut feeling. Something was wrong, and he should check on his brother, just in case.

Leaving his dirty plate on the table, Dean hastened out of the kitchen and down the hall, spurred by a growing sense of urgency. When he reached Sam's door, he didn't even knock. He just barged in, stopping short at the smell of blood.

It took a moment to process the sight in front of him.

Sam was leaning over his bed, pulling off the red-stained sheets. He had a white bandage on his left cheek, another on his forehead, and a long strip wrapped around his left hand. He was already dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting plaid shirt—his sweatpants and the T-shirt he wore to sleep were in a bloody pile on the floor.

What… the… hell…?

Sam glanced up at him with a haunted, deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Dean… I…" He trailed off, terrified, and obviously in pain.

Dean stared at him, too shocked to move… too shocked to breathe… He didn't understand—couldn't comprehend—what?—how?

"Sammy?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	3. Dread

_**Author's Note:**_ _Sorry for the short chapters! I'm still mapping this story out, so updates may come in small increments. I hope no one minds. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Straightening up, Sam dropped the bed sheets and bowed his head, unable to maintain his brother's gaze. It always concerned Dean how someone so tall could look so vulnerable—especially someone as capable as Sam. The kid's face was pale, and he was trembling, unsure of himself, and—to make things worse—unsure of his brother. Dean recognized the signs. Embarrassment. Shame. Fear.

Son of a bitch.

He briefly scanned the room, searching for an explanation, but none came to him. There were no weapons, no clues, not even a hint of a struggle. Who could have done this? _What_ could have done this? They were in the damn bunker! It was supposed to be secure! Anger flared through every fiber of Dean's body. First, their mom walked out on them. Now this? Couldn't they ever catch a break?

"Where is it?" he asked in a low, menacing voice, catching Sam off guard.

"What?"

"You didn't do this to yourself, did you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then where is it, so I can rip its heart out!?"

Sam flinched, shaking his head. "I don't know."

Awesome. Dean growled, giving the room a final inspection. As far as he could tell, the coast was clear. But just to be safe, he stalked over to the nightstand and retrieved a pistol from the top drawer. "Sit tight," he warned his brother. "I'll be right back." He withdrew into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and began a thorough search for a nameless threat.

 **SPN**

Left to his own devices, Sam couldn't bring himself to obey his brother. He couldn't just wait around with a bloody pile of sheets and clothes, especially when the bunker was safe—more or less. He had to keep moving, if only to focus on something else. Anything else. Anything other than the reality of his hopeless predicament.

Lucifer…

Oh, God. He didn't want to think about Dean's reaction. They just lost their mom! If Lucifer took Sam…

No!

His chest tightened in panic. He knew all too well the pain of losing his brother. To Hell. To Purgatory. Metatron. The Mark of Cain. Amara. That was the kind of pain, the kind of loss, they feared above all, and Sam would do anything to spare Dean from that.

" _I killed Benny to save you. I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I'm begging you…_

" _There ain't no me if there ain't no you."_

How could Sam tell Dean that Lucifer would stop at nothing to possess him? How would Dean cope when he found himself alone?

If. _If_ he found himself alone. They could still fight this. Lucifer didn't have to win. Just because he could haunt Sam's nightmares, torture him in his sleep, sabotage his rest, and leave him crippled in the morning did not guarantee his success. They stood up to him before. They could do it again.

But how? If Sam couldn't sleep, how long would he last?

" _Hey, Sam. What's the longest a normal human being's ever gone without sleep? Eleven days. Hey. You always wanted to be normal, Sam! If you are, you'll be dead in a week!"_

But how could Sam sleep, knowing that Lucifer would be there, waiting for him? He shuddered at the thought, then gathered up the bloody mess, and limped miserably out of his room.

 **SPN**

Dean searched the bunker inside and out, but found nothing to suggest a breach in security. Unless, of course, they were dealing with a hex bag. That bitch from London could have stashed one anywhere back when she kidnapped Sam. Maybe it was time they lodged somewhere else.

Yeah, right. Like his brother would ever leave this place!

Dean scowled, chomping at the bit to break something—preferably the unknown assailant. He stormed back to Sam's room, where he caught the kid making his bed with a fresh set of clean sheets. "Damn it, Sammy! I told you to sit tight!" Without waiting for a response, he stalked over to the nightstand and yanked out the bottom drawer, riffling through it for a small brown bag. He didn't see one, so he moved on to the next drawer up.

Sam sighed. "It's not witchcraft, Dean."

His certainty—and resignation—filled Dean with dread. He whipped his head around. "Then what is it?"

The look on Sam's face was disturbingly familiar—torn between fight or flight. His eyes wandered the room, reluctant to meet Dean's gaze, and while he was doing his best to hold himself together, he was obviously an inch away from tears. He bowed his head, and suddenly, Dean recognized his anguish.

" _Wait. Are you seeing him right now? … You know that he's not real. Right?"_

" _He says the same thing about you."_

Dean's stomach dropped. His blood ran cold. It made sense. Lucifer spent months planting thoughts and visions in Sam's mind, trying to play God while still in the cage. Now that he was above ground—free!—Sam was literally a sitting duck. The devil had open access to his dreams, and he was more than capable of torture.

Anger abating, Dean placed the gun on the nightstand and took a deep, calming breath. He just got his brother back, and he'd be damned if he let anyone—much less the fallen angel—separate them again. Oh, hell no.

"If he wants you," he said, crossing the distance between them and wrapping Sam in his arms. "He'll have to go through me."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	4. The Devil's Claim

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm taking some creative liberties with this chapter… It's fanfiction, so why not? Enjoy!_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _Supernatural isn't mine. I'm just another devoted fan._

 **SPN**

Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves in a large community bathroom, where Dean took stock of Sam's injuries. How was the kid even standing? He had a severe burn on his right foot, and a bullet wound in his left leg. His torso was covered with fresh scars and minor burns from a cattle prod. His left hand had been sliced open; he had cuts on his cheek and forehead, and some ugly abrasions on his wrists and ankles. Anyone else would have been down for the count, but somehow, Sam managed to patch himself up and clean his room—all while Dean recovered from a hangover. He shouldn't be surprised. Just a few weeks ago, the kid took out three werewolves with a major stomach wound. He never ceased to amaze.

"So let me get this straight," Dean said as he helped Sam back into his shirt. "Cas healed you… Then Lucifer came to you in a dream and reversed it? So all this damage is actually from Lady What's-Her-Face?"

Sam grimaced. "Basically. Yeah. Umm… Lady Toni Bevell."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Please. That bitch is no lady. Suzy Lee—'Carmelita.' Now _she's_ a lady." He tried to keep his tone light as he bolstered Sam for the trek to the library. It would be a long walk. "Seriously, though? All this for names, passwords, and an organizational hierarchy that doesn't even exist?"

"Yeah, well… she's not as smart as she thinks she is."

"No kidding! If she had half a brain, she would have asked nicely. You're such a fan boy, you'd have been happy to help."

"You know," Sam began timidly. "I hate to say it, but… against Lucifer… we could use _her_ help… Or their help, anyway… The Men of Letters…"

The thought had already crossed Dean's mind. Normally, he wouldn't even consider it—those bastards shot, kidnapped, and tortured his little brother! They didn't get a free pass just because they "claimed" that Toni "went too far." But Lucifer… Sam could pull a few all-nighters, but eventually, he would have to sleep, and Dean would do anything to protect him from the devil. They had Mick Davies' phone number. Maybe they could call him and leave Toni out of it. "Why don't we just wait and see what Cas says first?"

Upon reaching the library, Dean eased Sam into a chair and fished his cell phone from his pocket. One thing's for sure… They were in over their heads, and would need back-up as soon as possible.

 **SPN**

As it turned out, Castiel was off gallivanting with the self-proclaimed King of Hell. Since they both shared a common enemy—Lucifer—they could justify another truce, teaming up to put the devil back in his cage. Despite everything, Dean could appreciate their allegiance—especially now, with Sam in danger.

Given the urgency of the situation, Cas agreed to abandon his truck, and Crowley zapped them straight to the bunker's doorstep, where Dean quickly received them. As they made their way down the stairs into the war room, the demon graced them with a long-suffering sigh. "So, Moosey's in trouble again? Someone care to explain why this affects me?"

Cas ignored him, moving on into the library, but Dean bristled, turning to square off against his old antagonist. Crowley raised an expectant eye brow, and it was all Dean could do not to punch him in the face—or worse. "The last thing you need is Lucifer possessing his true vessel."

"Fair point," he acknowledged. "Of course, you do realize there's an easy solution, don't you? I happen to know a reaper who's very keen on casting Sam into the empty, where Lucifer will never be able to find him."

Billie.

Dean snapped, catching the demon by his coat flaps and slamming him up against the nearest pillar with a ferocity that brought to mind the Mark of Cain. "Did you just suggest killing my brother?"

Crowley huffed. "I was merely stating an option."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

 **SPN**

Sam was staring at his coffee cup with a vacant expression when Castiel entered the library. His head ached, his wounds were throbbing, and his heart was heavy with fear and distress. He didn't even notice the angel until he was leaning in front of him, his blue eyes bright with concern. Sam flinched, looking away. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," Cas told him gently.

"I released Lucifer. I released the Darkness. I keep making the same mistakes, over and over again. I'm not… I'm not strong enough." He could say things to Cas that he could never say to his brother.

The angel watched him with a sympathetic gaze, then reached up to brush his fingers against his forehead. Sam braced himself, anticipating a flood of healing energy… but it never came. Cas furrowed his brow, trying again. Still nothing. He stood up, towering over Sam, and placed his entire hand on the hunter's head. A moment later, he recoiled, backing away with a scowl.

"Cas…?" Sam whispered.

Suddenly, they were joined by Dean and Crowley—the demon was straightening his coat, glaring at Dean behind his back. They both stopped short when they saw the angel's expression. "What's wrong?" Dean asked.

"I can't heal Sam," Cas replied, much to their horror. "It's Lucifer. He's blocking me." He glanced back at Sam, tense and wary. "He has a claim on you."

Sam's heart skipped a beat.

"No he doesn't," Dean growled.

"What kind of claim?" Crowley asked, more curious than upset—ever the crossroads demon.

"The spiritual kind…" Cas paused long enough to collect his thoughts, then explained, "Sam is Lucifer's vessel. Like it or not, they share a connection."

Dean wasn't having it. "Like hell they do."

"It's not something you can brush off, Dean," the angel chastised. "This is serious. Lucifer has a hold on your brother. I can sense it. Even as we speak, his fingers are entwined in Sam's subconscious." He glanced back at the younger hunter. "I don't understand how this happened. Angels are always attuned to their vessels, but for Lucifer to have such a powerful claim on you—one that he's never had before—you must have welcomed it."

Sam shook his head. "I didn't! I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Cas bore down on him impatiently. "Angels cannot inhabit their vessels without consent. Neither can they cling to their vessels. Not like this. You are in his grasp, Sam. He might not be able to possess you, but he can _find_ you. He can manipulate you. He can shield you from me. He's gained access, Sam. Access only you could grant."

"Naughty boy," Crowley teased, despite his obvious apprehension.

Sam was shivering. "I swear. I didn't grant him access!"

"You didn't pray to him?" Cas demanded. "You didn't open yourself up to his influence?"

Sam's heart stopped.

"We pray to you all the time," Dean objected.

"That's not the same," the angel countered. "You're not my true vessel. It would be different if you prayed to Michael. Or if Sam prayed to Lucifer."

" _It wasn't God inside your head, Sam."_

No…

" _It was me."_

"I didn't mean to…" He dropped his gaze, unable to look at them. Any of them. Especially his brother. But he could certainly feel their eyes on him. He shuddered. "I thought I was praying to God."

" _So you see, he's not with you. He's never been with you. It was always… just… me."_

"Oh, Sammy," Dean whispered.

After a beat, Cas sighed. "Well, the good news is, he can't possess you. You didn't consent to that. But he can still exert dominance over you, and for all we know, he could be watching us right now. Eavesdropping. We need to break his hold on you. Immediately."

"How?" Sam asked.

Unfortunately, that was a question the angel could not answer.

 **SPN**

 _ **I hope that made sense…**_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	5. The Stone of Heaven

**SPN**

The drive from Lebanon to Lawrence was under four hours, but Mary stopped at a motel along the way, so it was quarter past noon when she finally arrived back home… in a neighborhood she barely recognized.

Thirty-three years… So much had changed.

She parked on the curb across from a two-story house with eggshell-blue siding. The lawn was immaculate with a colorful garden, and the big old tree with the gnarled branches had been removed. Good riddance. Whoever lived here clearly took care of the place, and while she envied their presence in her family's home—her children's home—she couldn't hold it against them. It wasn't their fault, and they deserved their happiness. She only hoped fate was kinder to them.

God, what was she doing here? She didn't belong… She was an outsider looking in, trapped in a world that made no sense. The technology alone… And her boys. Her precious boys…

" _For me… just, um… having you here… fills in the biggest blank."_

Words of welcome. But also words of heartbreak. How could Mary face him when her selfishness brought him a life of loneliness, confusion, and turmoil? Dean didn't tell her everything about Sam—he took after his father, and she could ascertain when he was skimping on the details—but he told her enough. So when she asked Sam why he returned to hunting after getting out, and he explained how their family hunts—how it's what they do—she wasn't convinced. That would have been Dean's answer. A simple, straight-forward, pain-free answer. An answer Sam thought she might accept.

But the truth was, Mary made a deal with the yellow-eyed demon to save John's life, so she wouldn't be alone. Consequently, Sam was singled out from infancy as the demon's 'special child,' and he would never have a normal life. No matter where he went, no matter how hard he tried, evil would always shadow him, and Mary was to blame. Why he wanted anything to do with her, she had no idea.

She needed time. Time to orient herself; time to manage her grief; time to come to terms with her guilt. Only then could she make amends. It would be a long road, and the boys might not understand… Dean had been devastated… but how could she meet their needs when she felt so lost? How could she care for them when she didn't know who she was anymore? When she couldn't comprehend her place in this cold, wretched world?

Suddenly, as she was gazing at her beloved home from the safety of her car, something in the pocket of her coat began to vibrate. She frowned, pulling out the small phone in bewilderment. It was just so… so _Star Trek_ , and she was never a fan of _Star Trek_. But still, she smiled wistfully when she read Dean's name on the screen, and pressed the button to accept the call. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" His tone was harsh and urgent.

"Dean…" she sighed, but he didn't give her a chance to object.

"Sam's in danger, and you could be a target. I need to know exactly where you are. This isn't a social call. It's an emergency."

Mary tensed, catching her breath. How could Sam be in danger? They just rescued him! She briefly scanned her surroundings, half-expecting a monster to jump out at her, but as far as she could tell, the neighborhood was calm and quiet. A few doors down, some children were playing with their handheld devices, talking and laughing while staring at their screens—but she could safely assume that was normal behavior. "I'm in Lawrence, outside our house."

"Don't move," Dean replied. "I'll be right there." He promptly ended the call.

Mary blinked, unsure what to make of his command. He wouldn't be able to reach her for nearly four hours—wouldn't it be odd if people noticed a strange woman loitering in a strange vehicle for no apparent reason? And if she really was a target, shouldn't she be looking for shelter? Why would Dean want her to sit out in the open like this?

Her troubled thoughts were interrupted when two large figures appeared in her back seat, literally out of nowhere. She acted on instinct, brandishing a silver knife and lunging for the nearest intruder—a stocky man with brown hair, a rugged face, and a black suit. As he raised his arms to defend himself, his friend caught Mary's wrist.

"Mom, wait! It's just me!"

Dean? She turned her head, eyes wide in astonishment, and stared at her eldest son. He was still in his clothes from yesterday, with the same dangerous intensity he displayed when searching for his brother.

"How did…? How did…?"

As her belligerence ebbed away, Dean released her wrist and leaned back, green eyes darting from her over to his friend.

"Mom, this is Crowley." He spoke the name with obvious distaste while his friend gave Mary a charming smile.

"Mrs. Winchester!" he exclaimed with a gravelly British accent. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Mary frowned, alarm bells ringing in her mind. She was a good judge of character, and even after thirty-three years, she knew a pig when she saw one. Some things never changed. But right now, she had more pressing concerns. "What's going on? What's wrong with Sam?"

Dean was busy scanning the neighborhood for concealed threats, so Crowley took it upon himself to reply, sarcasm rolling off his tongue. "Oh, nothing too serious. Just an obsessed stalker from the deepest bowels of hell. Same old, same old."

Mary froze, heart pounding. "What!?"

"Lucifer," Dean quietly explained. "He's dream-walking into Sam's nightmares, and according to Cas, he's found a way to burrow into Sam's subconscious. God knows how long he's been watching us, listening to us. He wants to break Sam, and he's already threatened to kill you, so we need to get you back to the bunker. Now."

At a loss for words, Mary turned to face forward, reeling in shock. Of course, Dean had shared their basic history, including their involvement with the devil, but he'd left out the finer points, and when he mentioned how God's sister ripped Lucifer from Castiel's body, they both hoped it would be the last they ever heard of him. They should be so lucky.

"Crowley," Dean muttered, and a heartbeat later, Mary found herself standing in Lebanon, right outside the bunker. She recoiled, caught off guard, but Dean was there to steady her. "It's okay! You're safe. I promise."

She pushed him back, glaring suspiciously at his friend, who stood several feet away, hands tucked calmly in his pockets, an amused twinkle in his piercing eyes. "How'd you do that? What are you?"

His mouth twitched with the hint of a smile, but he feigned disappointment. "You mean the boys never mentioned me? I'm hurt!" He glanced past her to pout at Dean. "And after everything we've been through together?"

"Shut up," Dean growled, setting his hand on Mary's back to guide her down the steps to the bunker's entrance. As they went, he explained, "Crowley's a demon, but against Lucifer, he's on our side. More or less. He's occasionally useful, so we're putting up with him. For now."

Mary clenched her fists, glancing over her shoulder to regard her natural enemy with a dirty look. He wasn't fazed, and actually had the audacity to wink at her. "I don't like him," she decided.

"His own mother doesn't like him," her son replied, unlocking the front door.

"But you like me, Dean," Crowley taunted, sounding all too sure of himself. "You can deny it till you're blue in the face, but deep down, we still share a special bond."

What the hell did that mean?

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, you wish." He opened the door and urged Mary inside. They made their descent into the war room, where Castiel stood by himself, a phone in his hands, and a grave expression on his face. Nevertheless, he welcomed the woman with a forced smile.

"It's good to see you again, Mary… I do wish it was under better circumstances."

"Me too, Castiel."

They gathered around the table with the giant world map, where they got straight to business. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but if he really shared a mental link with Lucifer, then it was only prudent to keep him out of their deliberations. The less he knew, the less he could reveal. God, this sucked. Mary could well imagine how frustrating it must be for Sam, helpless to contribute. It went against every hunter's nature to sit on the sidelines, but they couldn't risk exposing their strategies to their greatest enemy.

"I've been on the phone with Rowena," Castiel began.

"Just what we need," Crowley grumbled. "More dealings with that two-timing whore." He noticed Mary squinting at him. "A witch. And my mother."

She rolled her eyes. "Lovely."

"Why Rowena?" Dean asked, crossing his arms.

"She's powerful," the angel said. "She's knowledgeable, and she regrets having anything to do with Lucifer's release. She loathes him, and while she would rather keep a low profile, she promised to help if we found ourselves in need. I think this qualifies."

"And what exactly did she have to say?" Crowley demanded.

"She knows a dispelling ritual that might be strong enough to banish Lucifer from Sam's mind."

"Might?" Dean asked.

"If it works," Cas continued. "It will sever their connection, and prevent Lucifer from invading Sam's dreams."

Mary nodded. "That's perfect. So what do we need for the ritual?"

Nothing good, judging by the angel's grimace. "Keepsakes," he replied. "One of Sam's, and one of Lucifer's. Something they both cherish."

Mary felt another ache in her heart. She didn't have the slightest idea what either of her boys cherished… other than the Impala… and their father's journal—which she took from them when she left. She didn't know what they treasured. She didn't know them at all.

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "Assuming the narcissistic bastard cares for anything other than himself, what would it be, and where can we find it?"

"The emerald, perhaps?" Crowley aimed the question at Castiel, who acknowledged him with a single nod.

"That would be my guess." He focused back on Dean. "In the days leading up to his imprisonment, Lucifer forged a crown to rival God's. It featured the stone of heaven—an emerald that Lucifer stole from the divine exchequer."

"The divine what?" Dean asked.

"The treasury," Mary said.

"The crown became Lucifer's most prized possession," Castiel went on. "But when he was cast down, it was destroyed. Only the stone survived, but now it's missing, and no one knows where to find it." He paused, bracing himself. "Unless, of course, the Men of Letters have information we don't."

Mary stiffened. "The Men of Letters?" She spoke with ice in her voice. "You don't mean the same Men of Letters who kidnapped and tortured my son, do you?"

Crowley's face lit up. "Wait… Seriously?"

"Save it," Dean barked at the demon. He turned to his mother. "Sam can't sleep, okay? If he does, Lucifer will be there to torture him, so we don't have the time or luxury to hold grudges. If the Men of Letters can help us, we owe it to Sam to ask."

Like it or not, he had a point. And to be fair, he had more experience protecting Sam than she ever would, so if he could stomach an allegiance with the Men of Letters—not to mention a demon—who was she to complain? Still, as she watched him bury his face in his hands, she grappled with a wave of nausea.

He was their leader.

The realization chilled her to the bone.

Castiel and Crowley were both waiting for Dean to plan their next move.

An angel and a demon… following a young man… a boy… her son.

She wasn't sure whether to be proud… or horrified.

She never wanted this life for her children. It was more than she could bear.

At last, Dean reached a decision. He dropped his hands, and caught Mary's gaze. "Mom, I need you to stay here and look out for Sam. The rest of us need to find that emerald. Can you do that for me?"

She gaped at the uncertainty in his voice, as if he didn't know how she would respond. How could he not know? She might need some breathing space, but that didn't mean she wouldn't raise hell for the sake of her children. "Of course, Dean! Anything I can do. You don't even have to ask."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I never blamed Mary for leaving—for needing space—but the way she went about it… Ugh! It's not like the boys don't already have abandonment issues. But I always try to portray the characters as fairly as possible, and given the circumstances, Mary needed to be in this story._

 _ **Please Review!**_


	6. Lord Godwinson

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm assuming, at some point later in season 12, we'll see more of the British Men of Letters. I'm very interested in where they go with the mysterious Mr. Ketch, and I'm wondering if Toni or Mick will return. As of right now, I've only seen up to '_ _Rock Never Dies_ _,'_ _so I'm speculating on what the future holds—but this story's already an AU, so I don't think it matters much. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

At Dean's command, Castiel and Crowley remained in the war room while mother and son entered the library. They found Sam on his feet, gingerly organizing a stack of books on the central study table. Mary stopped short, catching her breath in alarm. Sam had two white bandages patched on his face, and another wrapped around his hand. Even at a distance, she could see him trembling. His brow glistened with a thin layer of sweat.

Dean warned her about this… but she wasn't prepared for it. "Sam, what are you doing on your feet!? You should be resting!"

He glanced up in surprise. "Mom!" A fleeting trace of fear tinged his features, but he quickly suppressed it and focused on his brother, who glared back at him in disapproval. "I thought I'd do some research, and read up on supernatural dreams. Maybe the Men of Letters knew something useful." Mary could tell he was naturally productive, anxious to earn his keep. He didn't want to be the victim, and he didn't want to sit around, twiddling his thumbs—despite the extent of his injuries.

Dean's frown deepened—he shared his mother's concern, but for the moment, he let it slide. "Just don't knock yourself out. If you have to pull some all-nighters, you'll need your energy."

"I'll be fine," Sam weakly assured him, dropping his gaze to stare at his books—anything but fine. He was in it for the long haul, but he was clearly dejected, and the pain wasn't helping. Mary's heart ached to see him like this… her baby boy…

"Cas and I are gonna chase some leads," Dean told him with a hint of reluctance in his voice. It pained him to leave his brother behind, and Mary wondered how often—if ever—they went their separate ways. "We're taking Crowley, and we'll figure this out. But you have to stay here with mom."

Sam grimaced. "So Lucifer can't keep track of you?"

"For starters."

Sam nodded, still staring at his books, unable to look up. "Be careful."

"Aren't I always?" Dean's bravado was hardly comforting—it implied reckless behavior. Mary turned to regard him with a questioning look. He returned her gaze with an innocent expression. "Well, there's no sense wasting time. I need to go. You'll take care of him?"

"Don't worry about us," she replied. "Just do what you have to do, and hurry back."

He briefly started for the entrance, but then paused to glance over his shoulder, as if forgetting something important. His emerald eyes considered Mary, and she could see the uncertain longing that hid inside him, yearning for acknowledgment. She would have happily embraced him, but he turned away too quickly, and stormed out of the library, leaving her behind. She sighed, half-expecting his detachment. After all, she left him first.

It was Sam's wariness that caught her off guard. Granted, she didn't know him as well as she knew Dean, and from the moment they met, he seemed hesitant in her presence—like he didn't want to get his hopes up—but he still struck her as empathetic and receptive. Even when she said goodbye, as much as it hurt, he tried to understand. At least, she thought he had. So why wouldn't he look at her now?

"Sam?" she asked, taking a small step towards him, gauging his response. He flinched like a skittish child, much to her regret. "What can I do?"

He shook his head, at a loss for words. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. "I wish I knew."

 **SPN**

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" Castiel watched apprehensively as Dean copied the number from Mick Davies' card into his cell phone. They were standing with Crowley on the riverwalk in Chicago, where their enemies had no reason to expect them. Dean would never admit it, but the demon's ability to teleport had its advantages.

"We don't have a choice," he told the angel as he pressed the call button. He held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring, wondering what he would do if no one answered. How the hell would they find the stone of heaven without expert help?

Fortunately, that wasn't an issue. After the third ring, the call connected. "Ello?"

Dean instantly recognized the Cockney accent, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Mick Davies? It's Dean Winchester."

"Dean!" As far as he could tell, the man was genuinely pleased to hear from him. "I'm so glad you called. Now, how can I be of service?" Under different circumstances, Dean might have found Mick's friendliness disarming, but he couldn't forget how Toni tortured Sam. It would take a lot more than charm for the Men of Letters to win his trust.

"You want to work with us?" he asked in a low growl. "You want to extend an olive branch and make America safe?"

"Give us a chance to prove ourselves," Mick replied. "Notwithstanding Lady Bevell, our group means you no harm."

Dean couldn't tell if he was lying. Not over the phone. "I need to speak to you in person."

"I can arrange that."

"Now."

A pause.

"Dean…" Mick said slowly. "I'm in London. I need at least a day…"

"You've got three hours to meet me in Paris," Dean informed him. "Pick a spot, somewhere in public, and I'll be there." With any luck, that would put them in neutral territory; Dean wasn't ready to give a potential threat the home-court advantage.

Much to his credit, Mick rolled with it. "Very well. How does Le Café Diane sound? It's in the Tuileries Garden, near the Louvre Palace. Mind you, I'm not partial to the food—it's mediocre at best—but I reckon we can find a quiet table to sit and chat."

"I don't care about the food," Dean snapped. "Just be there, and bring a know-it-all."

"Pardon?"

Dean grunted. "A know-it-all—a nerd—a genius—someone who's read every book on the face of the planet. I've got questions, and I don't have time for research, okay? I'm in the middle of a crisis."

"What's wrong?" Mick asked, suddenly concerned.

"Not over the phone," Dean replied. "I'll see you in three hours, and don't forget your genius." With that, he ended the call and glanced from Cas to Crowley. "I guess we're going to Paris."

 **SPN**

Sam didn't know what he hoped to learn from all these books, but still he studied them, having nothing else to occupy his time. He had to do something—had to work—if only to distract himself from the pain—and the fear—and his mom.

God, his mom.

She sat across from him, flipping through a large, ancient tome, eager to help. She had no idea that Lucifer appeared to him in her form last night. How could he tell her? How could he possibly admit—through no fault of her own—she reminded him of the devil? And how long would it last?

After awhile, Mary risked peering up at him, sensing his anguish. "You're gonna be okay, Sam."

He tensed, staring silently at the page in front of him. He didn't see the tears brimming in her eyes, and he didn't see her fighting them back.

"You know," she said, smiling despite the situation. "John and I… We never had siblings of our own, so when I conceived you, we couldn't begin to imagine how Dean would feel about a little brother. It was such new terrain for all of us. I thought… I feared the horror stories—that we'd bring you home, and Dean would be jealous. But he wasn't. The day you were born, John helped him hold you, and you closed your eyes, and he asked, 'How can he be napping? He just got here!' And he looked at you, and he said, 'Wake up soon, Sammy. There's so much I want to show you.' And I knew then, without the shadow of a doubt, that Dean would always be there for you. I think… I think that was the happiest moment of my life."

Her words made everything inside Sam ache. They could have been a normal family… a happy family… until he brought demons into their lives.

"Sam," Mary tried again. "I'm sorry."

He glanced up in surprise, flashing back to that night all those years ago when he met her spirit in their old home. "For what?"

"For letting that demon into your nursery."

Sam shook his head. "No, mom. That wasn't your fault. I was… I was destined for it. I'm Lucifer's vessel. The angels would have found a way to make it happen, no matter what you did or didn't do. It wasn't your fault. It's just… who I am."

Her face wrenched in turmoil. "Oh, Sammy… You are so much more than Lucifer's vessel." He dropped his gaze. "I mean it, Sam. When I look at you, I see your father. And I… I don't know if that means the same thing to you that it means to me, considering how he raised you… But you have to believe me. He was the kindest man I ever met. And I am so proud of you."

 **SPN**

The sun was making its descent, encompassing the sky over Paris with a golden radiance. The trees in the Tuileries were lush and green; the landscaping was classic and symmetrical; and the various sculptures were lively and elaborate. To the south-east stood the Louvre, and to the north-west, the Place de la Concorde, with the Eiffel Tower presiding in the distance, across the Seine. Hundreds of tourists were roaming the grounds, talking, laughing, and playing with their cameras. To them, it was the vacation of a lifetime, and they were savoring every moment.

Dean, however, sat by himself at a small table beneath a red patio umbrella, oblivious to the beauty surrounding him. Le Café Diane was in the heart of the garden, making it a popular place to eat. Very public. Cas and Crowley had no problem strategically positioning themselves to watch from afar. They didn't know how the Men of Letters would respond to the demon's presence, so keeping a low profile might be in their best interests. For now.

It was three hours on the dot when Dean finally glimpsed his contact standing at the takeaway kiosk, ordering food. He was in the company of an older gentleman who immediately brought to mind Henry Jones, Sr. from _The Last Crusade_. He wore a brown tweed suit with a matching waistcoat, trousers, and burgundy Oxford shoes. He had a neatly-trimmed white beard and mustache, and accessorized with a black bow tie, frameless spectacles, and a tweed bucket hat. Dean almost hoped he would speak with a Scottish accent.

After paying for two crepe cones—apparently for himself—and one drink for his colleague, Mick Davies turned and surveyed the crowd. It didn't take long for him to spot Dean, and he smiled warmly, pointing the hunter out to the other man. Together, they approached the table, walking at a leisurely pace with calm, pleasant expressions. Dean wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Alright, mate?" Mick exclaimed, offering Dean one of the cones to free up his hand. Then, he pulled the chair across from Dean out for his colleague, who settled into it with a tired sigh. Satisfied, Mick took the seat next to Dean, and shook his head when the hunter tried returning the cone. "My treat. You've come a long way." He glanced around, as if expecting someone else. "Where's your brother?"

Dean dropped the cone on the table, eliciting two small frowns from the other men as the crepe spilled everywhere. "You need to earn my trust before I let you anywhere near my brother." No one could miss the resentment in his voice.

"I assure you," Mick said soberly. "Lady Bevell did not get off lightly for the damage she caused."

Dean scoffed. "Care to be more specific?" How exactly did the Men of Letters punish their own? Especially when their associates belonged to the nobility?

Mick considered him for a long moment, but didn't answer. Instead, he motioned toward his colleague. "Might I have the pleasure of introducing Lord Godwinson?"

"Please, call me Bert," the old man said in a breathy voice with a posh accent—English, not Scottish, much to Dean's disappointment. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mr. Winchester, and if you don't mind my saying so, I'm actually impressed with your accomplishments. For a hunter." He held out his hand for Dean to shake, but Dean just stared at him.

"What can you tell me about the stone of heaven?"

Bert's hazel eyes widened, and he dropped his hand. "Straight to business, then? I take it your inquiry has something to do with Lucifer?" To his credit, he didn't sound contemptuous or judgmental—merely curious.

Dean nodded. "You could say that."

"And what seems to be the problem?"

Suddenly, the old man's composure struck Dean as indifferent. He stiffened. "You mean, aside from the devil's general crappiness?"

"We know he's evil, Dean," Mick assured him. "And we know he's a threat to all of us. We share your desire to contain him, but we operate through intelligence. The more you can tell us about his immediate goals, the more assistance we can provide."

It would be opening a can of worms, but Dean couldn't control himself. "Assistance? You mean, like the assistance you provided in Stull Cemetery seven years ago? The world nearly ended! We could have used your help!"

Mick had the decency to avert his eyes, but Bert wasn't fazed.

"It wasn't our place to intercede," he said with a shrug.

"Right," Dean quipped. "Hunters are beneath you, but when humanity's at stake, you depend on us to fix it."

"Hardly," Bert replied. "The apocalypse was the natural course of history. We were depending on Michael to 'fix it,' as you say." His words were like a slap to the face. Dean stared at him in shock, while he continued. "Unfortunately, you boys weren't properly educated."

Dean felt nauseous. "You mean indoctrinated."

Bert ignored the remark. "It wasn't your fault. The American chapter was dismantled long before your birth, and we acknowledge you were acting with the best intentions, given your limited resources. However, you did prevent the angels from establishing paradise here on Earth, and while I personally applaud your valor, I must confess, some of my colleagues aren't as forgiving."

So the Men of Letters had pledged their allegiance to Michael. Zachariah. Dean should have known. He grappled with his anger, torn between leaving and sucking it up. How dare they? "Your paradise would have cost millions of lives. Maybe billions. That's not true paradise. Not in my book."

"But it is," Bert insisted. "Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Your brother understands that. He sacrificed himself to drag Lucifer back into the cage. He would have sacrificed himself a second time to close the Gates of Hell, but my sources tell me you stopped him. Because you don't understand or appreciate the value of sacrifice."

Dean clenched his fists. First the angels. Now the Men of Letters? Whenever Sam put his faith in something, it turned around and bit them in the ass. It wasn't fair. The kid deserved better. "If that's how you really feel, then why are you 'interceding' now?"

"Believe it or not," Bert said. "We do have humanity's best interests in mind. Seven years ago, we believed in the angels' vision. We believed in paradise. But that's no longer an option, so we must carry on without it. And now, considering all that's transpired with Abaddon, the Mark of Cain, the Darkness, and Lucifer, we've come to agree, you and your brother need our expert guidance."

Dean bit back a scathing retort, and settled with, "The only thing we need from you sons of bitches is the stone of heaven."

"Why?" Mick pressed. "What do you intend to do with it?"

Dean glared at him, reluctant to explain, but they obviously weren't going to indulge him until they were satisfied with his motivation. "Apparently, Lucifer has some kind of 'claim' on Sam, and we need the stone of heaven for a dispelling ritual to banish Lucifer from Sam's subconscious mind."

Mick and Bert both grimaced, trading looks.

"We can't ignore this," the younger man said. "Without Michael to challenge him, Lucifer will be unstoppable in his true vessel."

"Alas, the stone of heaven is beyond our reach," Bert lamented.

"Ours perhaps," Mick acknowledged. "But not Dean's. He's been there before."

Dean frowned. "What? Where?"

The two men glanced back at him.

"When Lucifer was cast down from heaven," Bert told him. "His crown was destroyed, but the stone of heaven survived. While Lucifer fell into the pit, the stone fell somewhere else. Legend says it fell to Earth, but no one has ever been able to find it. After extensive research, the Men of Letters finally learned the truth. It's not on Earth. It's in Purgatory."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	7. Departure

**SPN**

Purgatory. Dean sat in stunned silence, staring back and forth between Mick and Bert. Honestly, he wasn't sure how to respond—conflicting emotions raged inside him. On the one hand, Purgatory was a realm of nightmares, full of monsters who wouldn't hesitate to slaughter him. On the other, it was an oddly simple, oddly familiar place—pure—a home away from home. Deep down, a part of him missed it, especially during his stint with the Mark of Cain. But he never thought he'd actually return.

"Can you get me in?" he eventually asked the Men of Letters.

They considered him thoughtfully.

"We can," Bert allowed. "But you enter at your own risk. Many of our hunters have ventured through the portal, and more often than not, they never return. Those who do have grown wild and savage, leaving us with no choice but to…" He trailed off, grimacing.

Dean scowled. "Wow. You people never cease to amaze."

It was not a compliment.

"The point is," Mick interjected, trying to stay on track. "You—and Sam, during his second trial—are the only hunters we've seen escape Purgatory in sound mind. If anyone can recover the stone of heaven, I suppose it would be you."

Not for the first time, Dean bristled at the thought of strangers spying on them for the past seven years. Where did they get the right?

"Of course, if we help you," Bert haggled, much like Crowley. "We'll expect some… compliance as compensation." Dean just stared at him, clenching his jaw, so he shrugged. "For better or for worse, you and your brother are heroes. The best America has to offer. Surely you have insider knowledge…"

Oh. That. "You want us to introduce you to our superiors?"

Bert leaned forward. "We want to form an alliance. To help you. Teach you. Is that so bad?"

Oh, screw it. "Fine," Dean agreed, hiding his contempt beneath a mask of impatience. How could these bastards know so much about his life, and so little about his peers? "If your expertise protects Sam, I'll put in a good word with Pastor Jim." When lying, always be specific.

Bert smiled in satisfaction. "Then what are we waiting for?" He clambered to his feet.

"There's just one thing," Dean added, catching both men off guard. They froze, narrowing their eyes. "I'd rather not walk single-handedly into Monstropolis. I need back-up. And you might not like who I have in mind."

 **SPN**

"You must be joking," Crowley hissed as the beacons from their camping lanterns lit up the prehistoric monument that loomed ahead of them. "Feathers and I spent months—months!—interrogating and torturing scores of vermin, all to locate Purgatory, and you're telling me there's an open gate? Here? In bloody Wiltshire!?"

Dean barely registered the demon's bitching. It was getting late, and he was worried about Sam. Seriously, this whole 'quest' thing was taking too long, and nothing could lift his spirits, not even a distinguished cluster of standing stones—some over twenty feet tall—with massive, iconic lintels.

"It's not an open gate," Bert huffed, leaning on Mick for support as they made their way up the path. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't pleased with Crowley's involvement, and only agreed to it when Dean threatened to forgo their assistance. He didn't _need_ the Men of Letters. He could always find a rogue reaper to smuggle him into Purgatory the way Sam did for his second trial. If Bert really wanted Dean's 'compliance,' he'd have to put up with the demon—at least for now. "It's an unlocked gate, but we keep it closed. Nothing has ventured into our realm through the circle since the turn of the twentieth century."

Crowley whipped his head around to sneer at Castiel. "Did you know about this?"

The angel spared him a withering look. "I knew Stonehenge—as the humans call it—marks the convergence of fourteen fairy paths, but I didn't understand the significance."

Dean shuddered. Friggin fairies… "Sam did say the leprechaun he banished claimed to know a back door to the cage. If they can enter Hell, why not Purgatory?"

Bert nodded. "Quite right, my boy. Fairy magic is ancient… wild… powerful… not for the faint-hearted… and much of it ripples through Stonehenge. Those who know what they're doing can harness it, and with the proper incantation, they can travel to any realm they choose through the famous trilithons."

"And your hunters chose Purgatory?" Dean asked incredulously. "Why?"

"To claim the stone of heaven," Mick replied. "Naturally. Finding that emerald is tantamount to finding the sangreal."

Dean blinked. "The what?"

"The holy grail."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you just say that?" Nerds. Still, it answered a question he had never been able to figure out before. How did Benny know about Purgatory's escape hatch for humans, when humans were never meant for Purgatory? Dean always thought he was the first of his kind to stumble into the place, but apparently he was wrong.

Eventually, they found themselves in the center of the half-crumbled ruins. It was too dark to appreciate the sight—even with their camping lanterns—but Dean could still perceive the full scope of the monument. According to Mick, the great Sarsen circle was over thirty yards in diameter! It was breathtaking, haunting, impressive, and mysterious. Even with a normal, busy road behind them, Dean still felt isolated—on the fringes of a strange and magical land. He wished Sam could be here. Sam was the history buff. An experience like this would delight him.

"Now then," Bert said, once he caught his breath. "I'm going to recite the incantation. At my signal, the three of you will leave the circle by way of that trilithon." He pointed out one of the stone frames that still stood on the outer rim. "You will find yourselves in Purgatory. From there, it's up to you."

"Take this," Mick offered, handing Dean a small, antique compass. "It's specifically attuned to our realm—Earth—and will guide you back to the escape portal."

Dean hadn't been expecting the extra help, and gratefully took the gift. "Thanks, man."

"My pleasure."

But then Bert had to ruin the moment by chuckling. "You're a fine lad, my boy. We'd hate to lose you, now wouldn't we?"

Dean stiffened while Crowley cleared his throat.

"Um, word to the wise," he confided in the old man. "When you're trying to charm your way into a Winchester's good graces, you don't want to be so patronizing." Bert flushed, and the demon smirked, twirling his hand. "Shall we get on?"

It was all Dean could do not to groan. If the two bastards were planning to fight over him, he'd shoot them both.

A hand fell gently on his shoulder, and he glanced over at Castiel.

"Are you sure about this?" the angel asked. "It's Purgatory."

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. It's Sam."

Bert began chanting in a language the hunter didn't recognize. Thankfully, it wasn't a long incantation, and soon, they were gazing through the trilithon into a different world.

Purgatory.

Dean braced himself, taking several deep breaths. He considered calling his mom. Saying goodbye, just in case.

But no. He didn't trust Bert enough to show any signs of weakness—especially the fear of failure. He could do this. He _would_ do this. For Sam.

"Well, here goes nothing," he said, making his way forward with Castiel and Crowley close behind him.

 **SPN**

It was approaching midnight and Sam's body was working against him. His eyes were weary of reading, and with all his injuries, he couldn't stave off sleep by exercising—or even pacing. Unless he had to use the bathroom, he wasn't allowed to aggravate the burn on his foot or the bullet wound in his leg by moving around—his mother ran a tight ship.

After dinner, they spent several hours on his laptop. Mary still had much to learn about modern technology, and it seemed like a good opportunity for Sam to help her catch up. He even showed her some of the games that Charlie recommended before she…

Anyway, the games were a good distraction, and Mary learned quickly. Under different circumstances, she might not have bothered, but for Sam, she'd do anything—even if it meant creating an avatar and defending the virtual realm against swarms of monsters.

Unfortunately, Sam's eyes were growing heavy, and he couldn't seem to keep them open. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms—further damaging his injured hand. He hoped the extra pain would keep him awake, and prayed for Dean to hurry. An all-nighter shouldn't be a big deal… but considering his physical condition, he was in desperate need of sleep—if only to hasten his recovery.

It didn't take Mary long to notice, and she frowned. "More coffee?"

Throughout the course of the day, they had finished three pots, but still, Sam nodded. "That'd be great."

"I'll be right back." She slid out of her seat and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes. He wondered how Dean was faring. It was bad enough getting benched… but he didn't even know where his brother was, and that truly sucked. At least he had Castiel… but what if Lucifer found them? They were no match for the devil.

When Mary returned from the kitchen, she was pulling on her field jacket. "We're out," she said calmly. "A supply run's in order. Let's go."

Sam blinked, caught by surprise. "Wait… Both of us?"

She nodded. "I promised to protect you, and I can't do that if I leave you here alone. Come on. Some fresh air will be good for you." She crossed over to him and helped him to his feet. Pain flared through his whole body, but he endured it. Together, they hobbled out of the library and towards the garage.

 **SPN**

It took several minutes for the coffee to brew, but Mary didn't mind the wait. The familiar task was comforting—some things hadn't changed as much as others—and she could use a break from the computer.

God, she felt so helpless. She didn't want to be a hunter—she didn't want her children to be hunters—but if they were threatened, she would do everything in her power to fight. She would not let her family be victims. But right now, against Lucifer? What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to protect Sam? This was so far above her pay grade.

She poured two mugs of coffee and made her way back into the library. Her youngest was still in his seat, but he was leaning over the table with his face buried in his arms. Mary sighed. "Come on, Sam. That's not how you stay awake." He didn't move, and Mary's heart skipped a beat. Careful not to spill the coffee, she rushed to his side. "Sam?" She set the mugs on the table and rubbed his shoulder. "Sammy?" Lifting his head from his arms, she gently eased his body against the seat back. His eyes were closed, and if she didn't support him, he would topple over.

No…

Mary's heart began to race. "Sammy? Sammy, wake up!" She frantically tapped his cheek, but he wouldn't respond— _couldn't_ respond. It wasn't natural.

She panicked.

"SAM!"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	8. Persuasion

**SPN**

Wrapped in a blanket, Sam leaned against the passenger-side door of the Impala, gazing out the window into the night. His mom sat next to him, driving with care and proficiency—much like Dean. The car belonged to her as much as it belonged to any of them, and Sam could sense how much comfort it brought her, reminding her of John. Even now, despite the bunker, it was still their home.

After awhile, she glanced sideways at him and broke the silence. "You still with me, sweetheart?"

He straightened up in his seat. "Yeah, I'm awake."

"Good," she said, satisfied. Then, after a pause… "You know, it might help if we talked. Just to keep you from dozing."

Sam frowned. She had a point, but still, they had spent the whole day together. What more could they possibly discuss? That is, without bringing up the more difficult subjects?

Naturally, she noticed his reservations. "It's okay, Sam. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?" Her soft, soothing voice was everything he imagined a mother's voice to be, and his heart ached with longing. As wonderful as it was having her with him, he still feared it was a passing dream. Too good to be true.

"I know what it's like growing up in a hunting family," she told him. "Constantly afraid of the shadows. Dreading the day when the people you love might not come back. The uncertainty. The instability. That's no life for children. I hope…" She trailed off, hesitating.

"What?" Sam asked.

She kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I hope it wasn't all bad. I hope you have some happy memories of your childhood."

"I do," he assured her. She smiled, but didn't speak, obviously waiting for him to elaborate. He tried, but suddenly, his mind went blank. He couldn't think of anything. He frowned, bowing his head. He had good memories. He knew he did. After all, they helped him put Lucifer back in his cage. But now, when his mom wanted to hear them—when she _needed_ to hear them—they vanished, fading away like vapor. "I…?"

 _Dean…?_

He tried to picture his brother's face, but it was distant and murky. The more he struggled to focus on it, the more it escaped him.

He couldn't breathe.

"Sam."

Mary's voice was steady and strong, calling him back to the present. He glanced up at her, disoriented, but hopeful. She was here. She would protect him.

"It's okay, Sam," she cooed. "I know it hurts. That's normal. But I'm here now, and you don't have to be afraid. Just let it all go."

Let it all go? What did she mean?

"Let what go?"

"Your memories," she replied. "Your brother. Everything. So it's just you and me."

He opened his mouth to object— _Dean…!_ —but the words never came.

His brother's face was gone.

He felt a fleeting moment of panic.

But then he breathed.

He sagged in his seat, leaning his head against the head rest. It was okay. He was safe. He felt his mother watching him…

Such a relief…

He smiled.

"That's it," Mary whispered. "Just relax. You can trust me, Sammy. I'll never leave you. That's a promise."

 **SPN**

Eventually, they pulled up at the supermarket. By all rights, it should have been closed for the night, but Sam didn't question it. The lights were on, and he could see people shopping through the storefront windows. Why would that be unusual?

Mary parked the Impala and climbed out. Sam followed her lead, discarding his blanket and wincing in pain.

"Whoa, easy there, big guy!" She hastened to his side, wrapping her arm around his waist to support as much of his weight as possible. Together, they trudged to the main entrance, with Mary encouraging him along the way. "I've got you. It's not much farther now."

The doors slid open and they crossed the threshold… entering a drafty, unfinished basement.

Sam stopped short, eyes widening.

Lit by glaring wall sconces, the room had very little furniture—a couple chairs, a wooden table, and a sink with a hose running up to the ceiling, where a shower head dangled over a drain on the floor. Sam knew he recognized it, but wasn't sure why. "Where…? How did…?"

"Ssshhhh…" Mary dropped her arm from his waist and approached one of the chairs—the one with the shackles at the bottom of the front legs. "If I'm not mistaken, this should be in the middle of the room." She began dragging it across the floor, positioning it beneath the shower head. Sam watched in confusion, heart pounding in his chest.

"Mom? What's going on?" He found himself edging backwards.

Mary glanced up, smiling brightly. "It's okay, Sam. Come sit down. Rest."

He felt a strange compulsion to obey, and nervously stepped forward. But then, he shook his head, backing up again. "No. This isn't right." He felt sick to his stomach, and turned to flee…

"Going somewhere, son?"

His dad was standing between him and the staircase. Sam froze, utterly shocked.

No… His dad was dead…

John smirked, grabbing him by the elbows and shoving him backwards, marching him across the room. "Now, I believe you were told to sit your ass down." He promptly knocked Sam into the chair.

Déjà vu swept over him. "No, no, no…" He wanted to fight, but his muscles refused to cooperate. John easily wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists together. Chains rattled as he fastened the cuffs to the back leg of the chair. Sam grimaced. "No, please!" He tried to get up, but the chains tethered him down.

John shuffled in front of him, reaching for his nearest ankle. "No one outruns their family, pal." He shackled Sam's leg to the chair. "And you should know by now…" He reached for Sam's other ankle. "I'm your family." He shackled it as well. Sam swallowed with great difficulty as John gazed up at him. "It's time to stop running."

Sam shivered, averting his eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

"Cause we need each other…" John sat kneeling in front of him, hands resting directly on his bullet wound. The pain was agonizing, and Sam barely suppressed a sob. "I _need_ you, kid. I've got nothing left. Haven't been myself lately. Without you, I don't know what I'm doing. So I need you to accept me."

With those words, it all made sense. Sam groaned. "I'm dreaming. Aren't I?"

John winked before rippling into Nick.

Lucifer.

Oh, God…

Sam set his jaw and turned his head, stubbornly refusing to look at his tormentor. He squirmed in his seat, testing his restraints, but of course they wouldn't budge. How was this happening? He didn't remember falling asleep—surely he had the discipline to endure his fatigue. Didn't he?

Lucifer feigned sympathy with a mocking pout. "Oh, Sam… Don't be too hard on yourself. I told you I'd give you a day to consider my offer, and warned you there'd be no rest if you refused. Did you really think I'd let you avoid me by staying up all night?" He clucked his tongue. "No. Can't have that. Typically, sleep deprivation's a bad thing, but in this case, I'd call it a reprieve, and since you're all mine again, you'll have to earn your reprieves."

Sam flinched. "I'm not yours."

Lucifer reached up and viciously grabbed his jaw, yanking his head around so they were facing each other. The devil leaned in close. "My family's gone, Sam. You know what that's like, don't you? Michael's lost it; Gabriel and Raphael are dead; my other siblings all despise me. And dear old dad? He exploited me. Abandoned me. All. Over. Again." He jerked Sam's jaw with each word. "I'm alone. Lost. Crippled. No home. No purpose. No destiny. I've been asking myself, why? What's the point? I can't even maintain a vessel!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Maybe you wouldn't have these problems if you weren't such an arrogant dick."

"Language, Sam." Climbing to his feet, the son of a bitch circled behind the chair and covered Sam's mouth with an ice-cold hand. It was smothering, and Sam thrashed against it, but couldn't escape. Lucifer bent down to whisper in his ear. "In these desperate, uncertain times, I need a firm foundation. A fount of faith and passion. A savior. My true vessel."

Sam moaned, shaking his head.

"I'm willing to trust you, Sam. I'm willing to let you guide me. Influence me. Redeem me. I just want some peace and direction. Think of the good we can accomplish together. We could rid the world of demons and monsters. We could eliminate suffering! Think of all the people we could rescue. You and me. I know you want it, Sam. I want it too. Just say yes."

 _He's lying! He's done nothing but hurt you, and threaten you, and chain you to a chair!_

Sam shook his head, much to the devil's frustration.

He sighed. "You're not giving me a lot of options here, are you?" He produced a wad of cloth and shoved it deep in Sam's mouth, where it weighed down his tongue. He tried pushing it out, but it was too cumbersome. Lucifer prowled in front of him, arms crossed. "Now, I've been nothing if not amenable, Sam. So you've got no one to blame but yourself for what happens next."

Sam shrank back, averting his eyes. He grappled with his cuffs, but only made the chains rattle.

Lucifer leaned over him, cupping the side of his face with his hand—it was so cold, it burned. Sam whimpered, shying away from the contact, but Lucifer wouldn't let go. Instead, he straddled Sam's legs and sat on top of him. Pain flared through his busted thigh, and he grimaced as Lucifer rubbed his cheek with his thumb.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Sam. I wanted to reward you. But… it's almost like you're asking for it." He flicked his gaze toward the sink and compelled the knob to turn. Water ran up the hose to the shower head, where it crashed down on the two of them like a violent, freezing hurricane. Lucifer didn't seem to mind, but Sam bucked, struggling against his shackles with frantic desperation. The water slammed onto him with crushing intensity, drenching his clothes and shocking him to the core.

"Fun fact!" the devil exclaimed. "Cold showers are actually good for you! Better than hot ones! They do wonders for your skin, your circulation, your immune system. They even increase your testosterone! You should be thanking me, Sam!"

But it wasn't just a cold shower. It was _freezing_ , and Sam could hardly breathe. All too soon, he was shivering uncontrollably.

Lucifer waited patiently, stroking Sam's face while the water chipped away at his defenses. The seconds turned into minutes… the minutes felt like hours… Sam moaned, squirming in distress.

Lucifer leaned forward to nuzzle against Sam's cheek. "Say yes, or I'll never let you warm up. You'll spend the rest of your life—the rest of eternity—with hypothermia. I guarantee it."

Crap…

No!

Sam still shook his head.

"Very well…" Lucifer leaned back, regarding him thoughtfully. "If you won't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to yourself." He smirked, and before Sam could process the remark, he plunged his hand through his abdomen to reach his soul.

"MMMPPPPPP!"

Words could not describe the excruciating agony. Stars exploded in Sam's vision, his face contorted in pain, and his body writhed. In the distance, he thought he heard heavenly ringing, but the sound filled him with dread, reminding him of the cage.

Suddenly, with no warning, the devil yanked his hand out, extracting a piece of Sam with it. He howled, arching his back, sobbing despite himself.

 _God, please make it stop!_

The next thing he knew, Lucifer was climbing off him. He blinked, panting for breath, struggling to recover. What just happened?

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Sam," the devil purred, but he was speaking to someone else. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

What…?

Squinting through the downpour, Sam glanced from Lucifer over to the strange new arrival—a towering figure dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a green field jacket.

 _Him!_

It was him.

Sam Winchester, with a callous face and predatory eyes.

Sam Winchester, a man without a soul.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	9. Dream-Walking

**SPN**

Considering the relentless deluge of ice-cold water, it should have been difficult to observe anything around him, but in the confines of a supernatural dream, Sam had no trouble watching his two enemies confront each other. Lucifer wore a playful smile; Sam's alter ego, a suspicious scowl. They carefully circled each other, poised to strike, mindless of the captive chained to the chair.

After a few drawn-out moments, _he_ broke the silence. "If you think I'm going to help you occupy my body, you've really lost some brain cells. How hard did Amara hit you?"

"See, that's what I like about you, Sam," the devil replied. "You're so bold. Driven. Fearless."

 _He_ scoffed. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Just hear me out," Lucifer implored. "You're a hunter, Sam. The best hunter to ever live. Even without your soul, you made it your personal mission to protect humankind from all the ghosts and monsters and demons of the world. It's in your nature. And while it's true, you had to kill a few civilians every once in awhile, you did it for the greater good. In the grand scheme of things, don't you think saving hundreds of lives is worth sacrificing five or ten?"

 _He_ rolled his eyes. "Is there a point to all this?"

"I'm burning through vessels! I can't help it. I'm an archangel and humans are so fragile. They're dying, Sam, and more will continue to die if you don't do something." _He_ paused, frowning thoughtfully. Lucifer closed in, gripping _his_ shoulders. "Come on, Sam. Give yourself some credit. You're strong. You beat me before. Maybe you can do it again. There's only one way to find out. Think of all the lives you'll save. You're the only one—the only one short of Chuck—who stands a chance against me. You're not a coward, Sam. You know it's the right thing to do. You just have to accept it."

Sam could see the temptation on his alter ego's face. _He_ was actually listening! Sam moaned through the gag in his mouth and tugged against his restraints. They bit into his wrists, refusing to let go, and the more he struggled, the more attention he attracted. Lucifer and his alter ego both glanced at him, expressions cruel.

"There's just one flaw in your little plan," _he_ eventually told the devil. "It doesn't matter what I think. I can't let you in. You need my soul's consent. Not mine."

Lucifer feigned a grimace despite his amusement. "Oh, I know!" he whined. "That's always been our number-one obstacle. Your soul will never cease to reject me. But you want to know why? It's not because he hates me. Oh, no. He'd give his life to fight me; we all know that. It's because he doubts you. I mean, he's the only human in all of history with the experience to subdue me—to vanquish me!—and he won't even try because, after everything you've been through, he still doubts you're strong enough to win, and he won't take that risk." Lucifer smirked at the growing contempt on _his_ face. "Care to show him who's boss?"

Sam shrank in his seat, twisting his wrists with renewed desperation. He was already so cold, his nerves were screaming at him. How would he endure more abuse? His captors turned to tower over him. His heart was hammering in his chest. He could barely breathe. Lucifer reached down to brush the wet hair out of his face with perverse affection, and he flinched at the devil's touch.

His alter ego sneered, extracting a knife—Ruby's knife—from inside his jacket. "You were always pathetic, Sam, but this is beneath even you." Oblivious to the freezing shower, _he_ closed in, seizing Sam's jaw and pressing the blade against his cheek. Meanwhile, Lucifer edged out of the way, creeping behind Sam where he could pet his arm and still enjoy the show.

"If we let him in, we can trap him," his alter ego growled. "We can find a way to dump him back in the cage. We have Rowena's magic and the book of the damned on our side. There's nothing we can't accomplish!"

Sam tried to argue. He tried to point out that Lucifer would never kindle their self-confidence if he seriously considered them a threat. Sam could not compete against the devil, especially without demon blood, and if he surrendered, he'd be overwhelmed. A prisoner inside his own body till the end of time. Why couldn't his alter ego understand? If they agreed, they'd be giving Lucifer exactly what he wanted, and the rest of the world would be screwed! Sam tried to warn him—he was letting the devil manipulate him! But the gag in his mouth smothered his words, and they came out muffled. Unavailing.

Of course, that didn't keep his alter ego from sensing his refusal. _He_ narrowed his eyes, aggressively releasing Sam's jaw to straighten himself up. His lip curled, and then, he brutally back-handed Sam across the face, right over the cut on his cheek. Sam's head whipped to the side, ears ringing. He felt Lucifer behind him, caressing his arm, and shuddered, helpless to protect himself. If only…

If only… what?

If only he had someone watching his back. Someone he could depend on to save him.

A face began to surface in his mind, but when he tried to focus on it, it slipped away. He was alone.

"You know what, Sam?" his alter ego criticized. "I've had it with your misgivings. You hold us back. You make us weak. Maybe it's time I put you in your place." _He_ brandished the knife and abruptly slammed it down, stabbing Sam's leg directly on the bullet wound. Sam howled, bucking in agony as blood mixed with water.

"Thatta boy," Lucifer crooned, wrapping an arm around Sam's chest while resting his chin on his shoulder. "There's the Sam I love so much!"

Sam's stomach turned.

His alter ego gave the knife a vicious twist, and the pain was blinding. Sam thrashed in Lucifer's arms, terrified and frantic. When his alter ego finally yanked the blade from his flesh, he screamed, much to the bastard's delight. "Better brace yourself, Sam. I'm just warming up."

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a woman armed with a rifle appeared by the stairs behind Sam's alter ego. Blonde and petite, she looked vaguely familiar with a harsh expression on her pale face.

Caught by surprise, Lucifer sprang upright, which startled Sam's alter ego. _He_ turned to follow the devil's gaze, but the woman took preemptive measures by smashing the barrel against his head. He went down hard, instantly unconscious.

"Now what do we have here?" the devil muttered as the woman squared off against him. "Mary Winchester? Dream-walking? I have to say, I'm impressed."

She aimed the rifle. "Let him go."

"Well, you see, I _would_ … but he's mine. You sold him to me forty-three years ago, before he was even born."

Clenching her jaw, she fired, shooting him right in the head. The impact knocked him backwards, and he hit the ground. Shaking, Sam glanced over his shoulder to see him sprawled out on the floor, groaning, dazed but alive. By the time he glanced back around, the woman—Mary, his mother—was already crouching in front of him. Ignoring the shower, she pulled the cloth out of his mouth. "Sammy? Baby, listen to me. You're dreaming. We're inside your mind. Not Lucifer's mind. _Your_ mind. You're in control here. I don't care how powerful he is. You can fight him!"

Sam's teeth were chattering, and he shook his head. "No…"

Lucifer recovered quickly, sitting up with a grimace on his face. Sam glanced back at him, watching in alarm as he clambered to his feet. "What the hell do you have in that rifle?"

She straightened up, swiftly taking aim. "I've seen Castiel's angel blade. Figured the metal would make good ammo. And since we're in a dream, anything's possible."

Lucifer chuckled, waving his hand to rip the weapon from her grasp. It flew to the side of the room, where it landed harmlessly on the ground. Mary stiffened, making a move to retrieve it, but Lucifer cut her off.

"Uh-uh-uh…" He held up a finger, warning her back.

Sam caught his breath, recognizing the malicious glint in his eyes. This was bad. He squirmed in his seat, whimpering as Lucifer made his approach. "Mom…"

"I'm glad you came, Mary," the devil professed, transforming from Nick back into Sam's father. "I've been so eager to meet you." Mary faltered at the sight of her dead husband.

"You bastard…"

He grinned, bearing down on her. "What? You don't think it's appropriate?" He grabbed her by the neck, squeezing hard. She gasped, reaching her hands up to grapple with his fingers, but failed to pry them off.

"NO!" Sam shouted, struggling with his restraints. The chair rocked precariously, but the shackles held fast. "GET AWAY FROM HER!"

Without missing a beat, Lucifer tossed Mary into the stairs with enough force to send her crashing through them. As wooden planks collapsed on top of her, Lucifer spun around to face Sam. "What's it going to be, big guy? You can either say yes, or you can sit there and watch while I violate your mom."

"DON'T!" Sam's wide-eyed gaze flicked from Lucifer to Mary, who somehow managed to shake off the rubble and climb to her feet. Gripping a knife, she launched herself at Lucifer. He sensed her attack and turned, batting her arm away and punching her in the face. She stumbled backwards, but didn't fall. Unfortunately, Lucifer didn't give her time to rebound. He seized her arm and wrenched it behind her back, stealing her knife while catching her in a tight embrace. Suddenly, he seemed twice her size, swallowing her up in his arms. She shrieked, writhing against him, but he was an angel, and she was just a human. He laughed, discarding the knife while leaning over her shoulder to lick her face.

"NO! STOP!" Sam flushed, despite the freezing shower. "PLEASE!"

Lucifer spared him a brief glance. "You know what you have to do, Sam. A simple yes, and I'll leave your mom alone. I promise."

"Sam, don't!" Mary objected. "You can fight this!"

"You can fight, but you can't win," Lucifer retorted. "And the more you try, the worse it'll be. Say yes, Sam."

He shook his head, heart pounding. "No…"

Disapproval darkened his father's face. "Have it your way." He roughly dropped Mary to the floor. She rolled onto her back, scooting away from him in obvious dread. He grabbed her ankles and dragged her so she was directly in front of Sam's chair. "How about it, doll? Shall we try some of your little boy's favorite moves?"

She glanced around in search of her fallen knife—it was only a few feet away. She made a grab for it, but Lucifer flicked his wrist, and it skated out of reach. Then, he was on top of her, straddling her waist and pinning her to the ground. She tried jabbing him off, but he easily caught her wrists and held them in a single hand. "Did you really think you could waltz in here and fight me? _Me?_ Do you have any idea who I am?"

She spat in his face, which only made him laugh. A moment later, he was leaning down, kissing her firmly on the mouth.

Sam thrashed against his restraints. "NO! STOP IT!" The chair tipped, toppling over, and he landed on his side, hitting his head on the hard floor. Stars danced in front of him, and he groaned, unable to move. When his vision cleared, he found—to his horror—that his new vantage point gave him a better view of his mom's predicament. They were on the same level, and he could see her face beneath Lucifer's. He could see her panic. "Stop… Please…"

But Lucifer would never stop. His lips were slowly traveling from her mouth across her cheek toward her ear, and Sam knew—he just _knew_ —that Lucifer would bite it off. All part of the foreplay. He couldn't watch this. Not this. "Okay… OKAY!"

Lucifer paused while Mary squirmed beneath him. They both turned their heads to stare at Sam.

"That's it," the devil coaxed. "You're almost there, Sammy. You just have to say it."

"No…" Mary whimpered, tears in her eyes. "Baby, no…"

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Saying 'yes' went against everything he believed in, but at this point, he would rather die than refuse. He couldn't watch Lucifer torment his mom.

As he grappled with indecision, he gradually became aware of a strange voice chanting in the distance. It sounded… Enochian.

The hell…?

Lucifer sat up sharply, hearing it too. They glanced around the room, searching for its source, but there was no one else in the basement. Lucifer scowled. "What is that?"

The chanting grew louder. More distinct.

Suddenly, Sam opened his eyes and found himself back in the bunker library, sprawled out on the floor.

He gasped, shivering despite the warm, dry air—his body was still cold.

"Mom?"

He quickly caught sight of her, lying on the floor three feet away. Her eyes were wide, and she was panting for breath, but other than that, she seemed no worse for wear.

They were home.

Awake.

Safe.

But how?

A pair of footsteps tapped towards him. He sat up, whipping his head around to gawk at a strange dark-haired man in a fancy suit.

"Sam Winchester?" he asked in a sophisticated voice with an English accent. "Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters, at your service."

Sam blinked, struggling to process this turn of events. He was still shivering, unspeakably cold, and his various injuries made it hard to think. Arthur Ketch? British Men of Letters?

Toni Bevell…

As if on cue, the man produced a gun and aimed it at Sam's head. "Now. I think it's time you start cooperating, so we can deal with your favorite stalker. And for the record, I don't take 'no' for an answer."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Since the boys had African Dream Root on hand in season 8 during "Pac-Man Fever," I'm assuming they have some in stock at the bunker. And considering how much knowledge the Campbells had, I'm assuming Mary knows how to dream-walk. As always, let me know what you think!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	10. Taken

_**Author's Note:**_ _I dedicate this chapter to_ _ **Fiery Charizard**_ _and_ _ **Sammysmissingshoe**_ _. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Sam's breath caught in his throat. Not again! Unable to move, he sat shivering on the floor, staring at the stranger's gun, scared, confused, and severely hurt. Would this man—Arthur Ketch—kill him? If he didn't 'cooperate,' would he actually squeeze the trigger, and send him straight into the eternal empty? Lucifer wouldn't be able to haunt him there. If Billie kept her promise, he would finally have some lasting peace.

But Sam didn't want to die. Not really. Not when he had his mom back, and his… and his… and his friends. They deserved a future together, and Lucifer had no right interfering with their lives. Neither did the Men of Letters, for that matter.

Clambering to her knees, Mary shuffled to Sam's side, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. She glared up at Ketch with fury in her eyes. "Mick Davies said we could trust you."

"And you can," he calmly replied, freakishly cordial for a man holding them at gunpoint. "I assure you, we have your best interests at heart, and I certainly don't want to contribute to the lad's suffering." He took in Sam's appearance—his bandages, and his chattering teeth. "But like it or not, you've been compromised, and I have explicit instructions to bring you in. For your own safety, you understand. We can't afford to lose you to Lucifer."

"You won't," Sam argued.

Ketch sighed. "Really? I find that hard to believe. See, I took the liberty of scanning your mind, lad, and I know for a fact you were on the brink of surrender. If I hadn't been here to wake you, you'd be Lucifer's ride by now. All to save your mother." His glance drifted from Sam to Mary, to a glass jar on the study table, and back to Mary. "African Dream Root? Very clever, but foolish. You're no match for the devil, and now he knows you're the key to Sam's consent. You need our protection, and you can't deny it."

Mary scowled. "Did it ever occur to you we'd be more receptive if you didn't threaten us?"

He rolled his eyes. "Hardly. Lady Bevell crossed a line. We acknowledge that, and I wish I could change it, but what's past is past. Of course, I would prefer to earn your trust, but we don't have the time for such luxuries. One way or another, Sam's coming with me." He waved the gun, motioning for Sam to get up.

"NO!" Mary sprang to her feet, standing between Ketch and her son—directly in the line of fire. Sam's heart fluttered, and he anxiously grabbed the edge of the table, struggling to pull himself upright. "The bunker's safe," his mom maintained. "Impenetrable. As long as we keep him awake, Lucifer can't touch him here. There's no reason for you to take him. And I won't let you."

Ketch frowned, considering his options. Meanwhile, Sam trudged to Mary's side, reluctant to let her shield him. He tried to slip in front of her, but she whipped her arm out to block him.

After a lengthy pause, Ketch shook his head. "My sincere apologies. But I have my orders, and I won't question them." With that, he lowered the gun and squeezed the trigger, shooting Mary in the leg. She yelped, crashing to the floor. Sam's heart jumped to his throat, and he glanced down at her in wide-eyed horror. Ketch took the opportunity to charge forward, tackling Sam to the ground. His weight was crushing, and pain flared through Sam's body.

"NO! STOP!" Sam squirmed, trying to shove Ketch off, but the bastard leaned back and punched him in the face. The blow shook him to the core, making his head spin. He groaned, dazed and suddenly nauseous. Mary tried to launch herself at Ketch, but he kicked her, knocking her back. Then, he rolled Sam onto his stomach.

Grunting, Sam countered by pushing up off his hands, twisting, and elbowing Ketch in the face. The man flew backwards, landing on the ground. Sam quickly scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain. He had to fight this! He wouldn't be kidnapped. Not again! Grabbing a chair from the study table, he turned and swung it at Ketch with all the strength he could muster, but he wasn't fast enough. Ketch saw it coming and quickly rolled out of the way. The chair hit the floor, fracturing into pieces.

A moment later, Ketch was on his feet. He lunged at Sam, smacking his gun across the side of his head, which sent him careening into the table. It knocked the wind out of him, and he crumpled back to the floor.

"SAM!" Mary cried.

Ketch reached down to seize the broken chair leg. Brandishing it like a bat, he struck Sam hard in the knee, right beneath the bullet wound. The pain was blinding, and Sam howled. Ketch struck him again, in the same place, and Sam felt something crack.

Time seemed to stop as white-hot agony rippled through his body.

Mary screamed.

Ketch turned and struck her hard in the face. She hit the ground, and didn't move. Sam could smell the blood flowing from her leg.

No…

"Stop…"

Ketch glanced at him, and his face softened. "It didn't have to be this way, but like I said, I don't take 'no' for an answer." He grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and dragged him away from the table. Sam struggled, squirming miserably, but his strength was gone, and Ketch easily rolled him onto his stomach. "For what it's worth, we're on your side." He grappled with Sam's arms, wrenching them behind his back. "After all, you and Dean are still legacies, which makes you part of our extended family."

 _Dean…?_ Why did that name sound familiar?

"And family sticks together." Ketch snapped a pair of handcuffs around Sam's wrists. "One day, you'll see. And you'll be grateful. I guarantee it."

Dean… Sam tried to put a face to the name, but he couldn't… and for some reason, the difficulty upset him. Dean? Who was Dean? He struggled to breathe, heart pounding in cold terror. He couldn't remember. Oh, God. Why couldn't he remember?

"Dean?"

"He can't help you," Ketch replied, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. Sam gasped, and the bastard promptly stuffed his mouth with a large handkerchief. "He's, shall we say, out of range? But don't fret, lad. We don't want to torture you. Not this time. We want to protect you. I promise." A moment later, he pulled off his red tie and hooked it around Sam's mouth, securing it snugly in place. "All set. I just need a jiffy to check on your mum. We certainly don't want her to bleed out. Then, we'll lock up and be on our way. How's that sound?"

Sam groaned, shaking his head, but with his broken knee, he didn't really have a choice. Ketch climbed off him and went about his business, while Sam languished on the floor, crippled and freezing. But the worse part was… he had an aching hole inside him.

Dean.

The name meantsomething… something important…

But whatever it meant was gone now, and he didn't know why. Who was Dean?

Sam could feel his heart breaking. Tears were brimming in his eyes. He had to remember. He _had_ to!

But his memories were lost, and he didn't know if they would ever return.

 **SPN**

Twenty minutes later, Ketch emerged from the kitchen, where he went to wash his hands. Sam tried not to look at him, focusing instead on his mother's unconscious body. Ketch had dragged her across the room, so she wasn't left in a pool of her own blood, and he bandaged her leg with merciful care. Sam wanted to crawl his way to her side, but his attempts were short-lived. His knee wouldn't cooperate.

Presently, Ketch crouched over him and grabbed his hair, yanking his head up off the floor and jerking it around so they were face-to-face. Sam winced as pain flared through his scalp, while Ketch smiled with false benevolence. "I don't need to tell you how large you are, lad. I should be able to lift you, but not if you start squirming, so be advised—if you make this difficult, I will turn around and kill your mum." Sam's heart stopped. "Just because I patched her up doesn't mean I won't shoot her in the head. Please, lad. Don't tempt me."

"Mmppffff-ppff-mmm!"

Ketch chuckled, dropping Sam's hair and hauling him to his feet—which really sucked. Sam couldn't put weight on his broken leg, so he had to use his burned foot, and he couldn't hold back a muffled sob.

"It's okay, lad! I've got you. You're going to be okay." Ketch bent down, wrapped his arms around Sam's waist, and pushed up, hoisting him over his shoulder. Sam's stomach flopped, and it was all he could do not to resist. He whimpered, clenching his eyes shut as Ketch began the journey from the library through the war room and up the stairs. Each step jostled Sam's knee, sending shock waves through his whole body.

They crossed the threshold into the dark, early-morning gloom. A large SUV with tinted windows—much like Toni's—sat waiting on the side of the road. Ketch pulled the key fob from his pocket and pressed a button to open the hatchback. History was quickly repeating itself, and Sam struggled to breathe. The rear seats had been removed to maximize space for large cargo, making it clear that Ketch had planned this from the very beginning.

"In we go…" The bastard eased Sam onto his back, inside the vehicle, and straightened out his leg as much as possible. "Try not to move that. I'm inclined to splint it for you, but not just yet. A lesson must be learned here. You're one of ours now, and you will abide by our laws." Sam shuddered, dreading the certainty in Ketch's tone. "If you lie still and behave yourself, I'll splint it on the plane." _Plane!?_ "But if you try my patience, I'll break your other leg. Understand?"

Sam's only response was an angry glare. Ketch laughed. "I do enjoy a challenge. But keep in mind, I'm not Lady Bevell. I'm not delicate, and I have nothing to prove. I want to help you, lad, but if you cross me, you won't like the consequences. I'm not trying to scare you; I'm simply stating a fact. Now then, let's do something to keep you awake. We have a lot of ground to cover, and I don't want you dozing off."

He left Sam in the cargo hold and circled around to the front passenger seat. Sam grunted, twisting onto his right side and wrestling with his handcuffs, but that only made his knee protest. A moment later, Ketch returned with a leather briefcase. He set it on the floor next to Sam, popped it open, and brandished a small device that looked suspiciously like a round thumbtack. Then, he snagged a fistful of Sam's hair and yanked his head into his arms.

"Mmmph!"

"This might sting a bit…" He jammed the device straight into Sam's temple, making him jerk in agony. Tears filled his eyes, and he desperately tried to roll away, but Ketch held on, making some final adjustments. "There! This will monitor your brain patterns, and if you start dozing, it will react accordingly.

Sam bristled, glaring up at Ketch in cold fury. The man sighed. "Take heart, lad. You're perfectly safe. And when everything's said and done, you could very well be Lord Godwinson's new protégé! He's had his eye on you for quite some time, and believe you me, that's quite an honor. I can assure you, no one regrets Lady Bevell's transgression more than he does, and he fully intends to make it up to you." He playfully ruffled Sam's hair. "Just you wait."

Sam growled, shaking his head.

"Calm down, lad! I realize you're agitated, but you're not doing yourself any favors by getting all worked up like this." He promptly reached for the briefcase and pulled out a solid black sleeping mask. "Perhaps this situation calls for a time out. You could certainly use some peace and quiet…" He wrestled the sleeping mask over Sam's face, covering his eyes. Sam recoiled as darkness fell over him, but he didn't have the strength to resist.

"Almost done…" Ketch proceeded to fit some kind of band over Sam's head. He couldn't see what it was, but the moment he felt the pads clamping over his ears, he understood. Headphones.

Sam's heart stopped as utter silence descended on him with cruel finality. He moaned, but the headphones blocked out the noise. When Ketch slammed the hatchback shut, he felt the SUV shake, but heard nothing.

Crap!

He couldn't see! Couldn't hear! Panic set it and he writhed desperately, ignoring the pain as he strained against his encumbrances… but the more he struggled, the more they seemed to smother him. He was at their mercy, and the realization made him bellow through his gag—not that he could hear himself.

The minutes seemed to pass into hours, and nothing changed. Eventually, Sam gave out, sagging in defeat while his leg throbbed miserably. God, he was in so much trouble… Some time later, when the SUV finally began to move—stealing him away from his beloved home—he could do little more than whimper in despair.

 **SPN**

Mary groaned, struggling to wake up. Her head was pounding, and her leg must have been on fire—it hurt so bad! But thankfully, she didn't smell burnt flesh. No. Just blood.

Blood?

Her chest tightened, and her eyes fluttered open. She found herself on the floor of the library, and something was definitely wrong. The bunker's main lights were off, while the red emergency lights were on, casting an eerie glow throughout the room. Everything was silent, and the air was still. No movement. She could feel the weight of isolation bearing down on her like a dense, heavy fog.

What the hell happened? Where was…? Where was…?

"Sam!?"

She sat up too quickly, and the blood rushed to her brain. She grimaced, sick to her stomach, and nearly retched. Damn. That smug bastard did this! She saw his face in her mind—suave, dark, and violent. He shot her in the leg, and God knows what he did to Sam.

Ketch… Arthur Ketch… British Men of Letters…

Oh, he would pay for this.

Catching her breath, Mary glanced down at her leg. Her jeans had been cut to expose the injury, which someone bandaged with expert care. Good. One less thing to worry about.

"Sammy… I'm coming…"

She had to call Dean. He would help.

But when she fished the phone from her pocket, it wouldn't work. The screen was blank, and no matter which buttons she pressed, it wouldn't activate. Damn. She tossed it aside and glanced around the library. If she could just find a land line… Maybe in the war room. She reached for the study table and climbed to her feet—the pain was brutal, but she pushed through it. After all, she wasn't just a pissed-off Campbell. She was a pissed-off mother. A Winchester. And she would move heaven and earth to get her son back!

If only it were that easy. When she staggered into the war room, she found the equipment disabled, and when she ventured up the stairs, she found the door locked. She couldn't get out, and she couldn't call for assistance. It didn't take long to realize she was trapped—a prisoner. The red emergency lights must be indicating a lock-down. Ketch didn't want her to follow him—and he didn't want her to run into the devil. That son of a bitch!

Furious, Mary slipped back onto the ground, giving her leg some much-needed rest. How the hell was she going to get out of here? And more importantly… how would she ever tell Dean?

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I figure Toni called Ketch a psychopath for a reason, right? :-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	11. Alone in the Cold

_**Author's Note:**_ _I sincerely apologize for my month-long absence, but I have good news. My family's eagerly expecting a new addition, coming in August! I've never been more excited, and I've never been more exhausted. The first trimester really does take a lot out of you. But I'm finally getting my energy back, and hopefully I'll be able to finish what I've started. Wish me luck!_

 **SPN**

In the four years since Dean left Purgatory, nothing seemed to change. The woods were endless, bleak, and wild. Monsters lurked in every direction, and if they were hungry in life, they were starving in death. Thankfully, Dean managed to fall into his old groove with remarkable ease—like riding a bike. He handled every threat with expert efficiency, capturing, interrogating, and killing.

Unfortunately, they weren't having much luck. After all, the stone of heaven crashed into Purgatory countless centuries ago, and most of the monsters inhabiting the place were far too young to remember the fall. They told Dean to give up. Only one species could answer his questions—the Leviathans—and he'd be stupid to seek them out, especially since he killed Dick Roman.

There had to be another way. Sam was counting on Dean to save him! But Purgatory was enormous, and the stone of heaven could be anywhere. How were they ever going to find it?

 **SPN**

Arthur Ketch felt no remorse for breaking Sam's knee. Neither did he take any pleasure from it. The lad wasn't worth the emotional investment—he was just a job, and Ketch was a professional. It would have been easier to simply kill the young asset, but they couldn't risk jeopardizing a potential relationship with the Yanks. The Winchesters were necessary for constructive negotiations—and certain other tasks. Lord Godwinson in particular had his eye on the brothers, but that was hardly Ketch's business.

The drive from the bunker to Jiaying's country estate took over three hours, and Ketch spent much of that time making phone calls, discussing the situation with his superiors, and plotting how best to proceed. Thanks to the soundproof headphones, he didn't have to worry about Sam eavesdropping—the lad's connection to Lucifer made him dangerous, and the less he knew of their plans, the better.

At least he wasn't sleeping. Ketch had yet to hear him activate the Somnus Inhibitor—the small device that Ketch planted in his temple. Good. As long as Sam was conscious, Ketch remained in control. For now, anyway.

When they finally reached their destination, they had to pass through a state-of-the-art security fence. Jiaying was nothing if not private. She came from a distinguished Chinese family that settled in London during the nineteenth century. The Men of Letters welcomed them, for they had ancient experience dealing with the supernatural, and their wisdom often proved invaluable. Over the years, the family flourished, gaining more and more favor, influence, and wealth. Astonishing wealth. Jiaying would never have to work a day in her life. As a young woman, she set out to "find herself," traveling all over the world before ending up in the middle of nowhere, America. Ketch couldn't begin to fathom what brought her to such a vulgar place, but he didn't give it much thought, because he didn't actually care. He only cared about the private airstrip in the middle of her property.

He pulled up to the tarmac and parked the SUV, gazing through the windshield at the Gulfstream G650—a long-range business jet—and five members of Jiaying's personal staff. A pilot, co-pilot, a stewardess, and two security guards—but there was no sign of Jiaying herself. Ketch didn't mind. He didn't fear many people, but something about Jiaying's family made him… uneasy.

Shrugging it off, he took note of the special "Air Access" wheelchair stationed in front of the stewardess. Designed to fit a corresponding frame in the cabin of the jet, it made travel more convenient for disabled passengers. As requested, this specific chair featured some modifications to better accommodate their asset—such as a five-point harness, two adjustable leg rests, and a pair of leather ankle cuffs. It never ceased to amaze Ketch what people could get their hands on when they were rich and well-connected.

Grabbing his briefcase, he climbed out of the driver's seat and motioned for assistance. As the security guards approached with the stewardess pushing the wheelchair, Ketch made his way around the SUV and opened the hatchback. Sam must have felt the vehicle move—between the blindfold and the headphones, he couldn't possibly sense Ketch's presence, and yet, he still recoiled, swinging his head around to face his escort.

After his initial protests at the start of their journey, the lad managed to calm down and apparently focused his energy on pain management. He was in bad shape, and a broken knee was no laughing matter. He couldn't hold back his frequent moans, but they weren't nearly as tortured as Ketch anticipated. Then again, what did he expect? The lad survived the cage! Of course he could cope with a few mild injuries.

The cold was another matter. It was shaping up to be a pleasant day, but that didn't stop Sam from shivering feverishly—no doubt a lingering malady from his nightmares. If Dean failed to obtain the stone of heaven, Ketch wasn't sure how long the Men of Letters would be able to protect Sam from the devil's influence. They could only do so much.

Interesting. All this trouble for one homeless hunter.

"My God!" the stewardess exclaimed when she reached the SUV and caught a glimpse of their new asset. "Is he fit for travel?" The two security guards exchanged looks. They obviously shared her concern, but Ketch wasn't fazed.

"Trust me, love. He's not an ordinary human. He'll be fine."

Setting the briefcase on the ground, he signaled the guards to help him drag Sam out of the vehicle. Naturally, the lad fought with all the strength he could muster, kicking his legs despite the pain, but he was outnumbered, and with his wrists cuffed behind his back, he was at their mercy. While one guard grabbed his ankles, Ketch and the other guard grabbed his arms, and on the count of three, they hauled him over to the wheelchair, ignoring his muffled complaints.

As soon as they wrestled him into his seat, they began securing the harness. It buckled in the front, with two straps for his shoulders, two straps for his waist, and one strap between his legs. Ketch fastened them all as tightly as possible, overlooking the lad's discomfort. Then, he adjusted the left leg rest to elevate Sam's broken knee while the guards fettered each ankle with a leather cuff.

Ketch smiled in satisfaction. "That's the ticket!" Retrieving his briefcase, he closed the hatchback, locked the SUV, and led the way over to the G650. It was time to board.

The jet's main entry door had been lowered to expose a built-in staircase, and a platform lift was present to raise the wheelchair. They made their ascent, filing into a luxurious cabin with all the amenities a man could want—oversized recliners, enormous windows, HD monitors, fancy tables, a fully-stocked bar, and more. Sam's "Air Access" wheelchair was anchored to its corresponding frame, while Ketch sank into the seat across from him.

Finally.

Kansas was nearly four-and-a-half thousand miles from England. The G650 could easily cover that distance without stopping to refuel. It would be a direct flight back home, and Ketch was eager to put this wretched country behind him.

 **SPN**

Sam had been in some desperate situations before, but this had to be at the top of the list. With the straps pulled painfully tight over his body, his arms felt crushed behind his back, and he could barely breathe. His injuries were agonizing, and the cold was bone-deep. He still felt drenched from the shower in his nightmare, and he couldn't stop shivering.

But the worst part was the sensory deprivation. Between the blindfold and the headphones, his world had been reduced to a tiny, suffocating prison. Dark… silent… empty… He knew he wasn't alone, but with no way to communicate, to assess his situation, or observe his captors, he might as well be in isolation. He hated feeling so helpless—not to mention exposed. If Lucifer found him like this, he'd be screwed.

Suddenly, his chair began to vibrate, and he felt the unmistakable sensation of movement. He was in another vehicle… one that required a lift to enter…

He was in an airplane. The realization made his stomach drop. Of course, Ketch had mentioned an airplane when he first kidnapped Sam, but mentioning a plane was a far cry from actually boarding a plane. Everything was happening the way Ketch planned, and Sam couldn't stop it. He squirmed in agitation, which only made the straps pinch his shoulders.

The plane picked up speed, and Sam felt the intense push into his seat. His arms ached, but he couldn't move them, and while he knew from experience that take-offs were loud, he still couldn't hear a thing. The headphones were unbelievably effective, much to his dismay.

Moments later, the plane rose into the air. Sam tensed, biting down on his gag. He could only assume they were on their way to England, and the prospect sickened him. He didn't have his phone, or his wallet, or anything resembling a passport. Even if he managed to escape these bastards—and that was a mighty big if—how would he get back home?

Several minutes passed… The plane reached altitude and leveled off. Sam's stomach settled, but he continued shaking—the air in the cabin felt like ice.

Suddenly, a pair of hands descended on his leg, palpating his injury. Caught off guard, Sam gasped as pain flared out from his broken knee. He tried jerking away, but the cuff around his ankle restrained him. The hands proceeded with their relentless probing, firm and unsympathetic. Sam moaned, thinking back to his ordeal with Toni. At least the veterinarian was gentle when he extracted the bullet…

Eventually, the hands came to rest above and below his knee, stabilizing his leg, while someone else began threading some kind of material under his calf, then under his thigh. Two padded boards were positioned on either side of his leg, and the material was used to bind them in place.

They were splinting his injury. Sam might have been grateful, but after all those hours in the SUV, it was too little, too late. He didn't think for a moment that Ketch cared about his treatment, and the splint was probably for show more than anything else. Ketch wouldn't want to look negligent in front of his superiors.

By the time they finished their work, Sam was panting breathlessly. Much to his surprise, a heavy blanket was draped over his body. He felt another pair of hands—smaller, kinder—tucking it around him, so it wouldn't fall off. Then, they began fiddling with his gag. The tie came undone, and the handkerchief was pulled from his mouth.

Sam gasped, desperate for air.

A piece of plastic was held to his lips. A cup.

"No…" Sam turned his head. He might be thirsty, but he wasn't stupid. No way in hell would he drink an unknown substance from a psychotic kidnapper.

"Ketch?" he called out, disoriented when he couldn't hear his own voice. "Ketch, you don't have to do this! Let me go!" No response. The silence was deafening, and Sam was tempted to shout… but if he made too much noise, they would only put the gag back on… He tried again. "Are we on the same side or not? I just want to talk. Please!"

Someone grabbed his hair and roughly yanked his head back. He grunted as more hands pried his mouth open. The plastic cup was shoved to his lips, and warm water poured down his throat. It was all he could do not to cough.

When the water ran out, the handkerchief was jammed back in his mouth. Sam felt a rush of indignation, and he howled angrily, but couldn't stop his captors from fastening the tie around his lips.

Damn it…

His head was released, but one hand lingered to stroke his hair. The contact made Sam nauseous.

But then it was gone, and he was left to endure the flight in profound seclusion.

 **SPN**

Ten years. She had been trapped in this nightmare for ten years.

It felt more like ten decades.

She never wanted this. On a good day, they called her the young she-wolf. On a bad day, they called her the little bitch. She despised them, but couldn't survive without them. She had no one else, and there was safety in numbers. At least, there _had been_ safety in numbers. Until Fenris gazed at her with lust in his eyes, rather than contempt, and she knew she had to flee. She would not subject herself to the alpha's appetite.

Dressed in a gray-striped shirt that was much too large for her tiny frame, she scrambled barefoot through the wilderness. They knew her scent, and would soon be on her tail. She had to put as much distance between them as possible, or Fenris would destroy her.

The cold, bleak sun was in the middle of the sky when she finally came to a halt, panting for breath. She leaned against a tree, legs shaking, heart racing. It wasn't fair. She didn't belong here. She didn't ask for this. If she wasn't such a coward, she would have killed herself long ago.

The wind picked up, and she suddenly caught a whiff of something strange…

Exotic…

Delicious…

Disturbing…

She turned her head, and through the mist, she saw a face. Dark… Ruggedly handsome… Oddly familiar… She knew him from somewhere. But how? Who was he?

Two other men appeared behind him, one in a black suit, the other in a khaki trench coat, but she hardly noticed them. Her gaze was fixed on the human.

Human? Why was a human in Purgatory?

He took a small, tentative step towards her, holding out his hands. They were empty. Harmless. But she wasn't fooled. She could smell traces of blood. He was a killer. She should run…

But she couldn't bring herself to move.

His green eyes softened with pity, and when he spoke, his voice trembled with remorse. "Madison… Is that… Is that really you?"

 **SPN**


	12. The Mistake

**SPN**

"Madison!" Crowley exclaimed in surprised delight. "You don't mean the werewolf Madison from Book 39?" He chuckled. "Now _that_ was an entertaining read."

Dean ignored the callous remark, keeping his eyes locked on the confused young woman. He never thought for a moment that he would ever see her again, and it pained him to realize she had spent all this time condemned to Purgatory. She might be a werewolf, but it wasn't her fault. She was a victim, not a monster.

How long had it been? Ten years? Eleven? Madison's expression was skittish—haunted—but not feral. Her features were human, and she wore nothing but an oversized shirt—Sam's shirt—which made her seem extra vulnerable. She couldn't possibly survive on her own, so where was her pack? Why was she running? How could Dean protect her?

"Madison…" He spoke softly, watching the uncertainty and recognition whirl across her face. "It's me… Dean… Sam's brother. You remember Sam, don't you?"

Her brow furrowed, and she began to fidget anxiously. Dean caught his breath, unsure how to interpret her reaction, until she finally broke the silence. "Sam… Sam sent me here…"

Dean couldn't deny that. "We didn't know… about Purgatory. We had no idea you'd end up here. I'm sorry."

She quickly scanned the trees. "Is he…?"

"No," Dean replied. "He's still on Earth." Her shoulders sagged, and she bowed her head. Dean wouldn't be able to blame her if she turned hostile—Purgatory was a very hostile place. But right now, she didn't strike him as hostile; she just looked sad.

"I remember asking him," she whispered in a broken voice. "He was crying."

"He took your death hard," Dean assured her. "And he never forgave himself."

Crowley scoffed, but when he opened his mouth to mock them, Cas cut him off with a pointed glare.

Meanwhile, Madison wiped her eyes. "I don't… I don't understand. You smell human. How did you get here?"

"A back door," Dean said, eager to move their conversation along. They couldn't afford to beat around the bush—the woods were swarming with monsters. "Look, Madison, we didn't come here for the hell of it. Sam's in danger." He noticed the way she stiffened—surprised and alarmed. Even after all this time, she still cared. Dean anxiously continued. "The worst evil you can possibly imagine wants to hurt him, and the only way we can protect him is with a ritual that requires a special ingredient. An emerald, called the stone of heaven. It's somewhere here in Purgatory, and we have to find it—fast. Do you know anything that can help us?"

She frowned, struggling to process what must have been the strangest story she had ever heard. "No… I don't… I don't even think Purgatory has emeralds. Or rubies, or diamonds, or any kind of gemstone."

"And that just goes to show how stupid you are!"

The voice came from the left—deep and guttural—making Madison flinch. Dean whipped around, instinctively shielding her with his body, while Cas and Crowley turned their heads. Through the trees, they caught sight of a burly man with long brown hair and a scruffy beard. He wore a fur coat over a medieval tunic, along with trousers and a pair of boots. Behind him lurked five feral lackeys. They bared their fangs, quivering in restless anticipation, but they held their ground, waiting and watching their leader for the signal to strike. Unfortunately for them, he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.

"Oh, Madison," he crooned seductively, ignoring Dean. "Did you really think you could run from me? Am I not your god?"

God? Dean glanced nervously at Castiel. They had plenty of silver to contend with a pack of werewolves, but a pagan deity? That was another matter.

Cas, however, wasn't fazed. "Actually, I sense no sacred qualities in you, werewolf. You're nothing more than a standard beast, drifting aimlessly through a forsaken land like everything else in this wretched place."

Now _that_ caught the leader's attention. He stiffened, casting his sharp amber eyes on the stoic angel. "Shall I prove myself?"

"By all means," Cas replied, brandishing his angel blade. Dean smirked, drawing his Colt M1911, currently loaded with silver bullets. He didn't see Crowley move, but knew from experience the demon would pull his own weight. They might be outnumbered, but they were more than ready for these mangy mutts.

"Kill them," the leader growled. "Rip out their damn throats."

His lackeys charged. Dean shot two of them in rapid succession, straight through their hearts, but didn't have time to cover Castiel. Three of the werewolves were quickly upon the angel, eager to make him pay for insulting their "god." While Cas went on the defensive, Crowley vanished, only to reappear behind one of their assailants. He stabbed it through the back, piercing its heart with his own angel blade.

Dean took aim—perhaps recklessly—and shot another wolf, striking its arm, which made it stumble away from his friends. Crowley followed it, putting it out of its misery, while Cas found an opening to slay his remaining opponent. And just like that, all five were dead.

Dean turned to check on Madison. She was cowering behind a tree, watching in wide-eyed, slack-jawed astonishment. Safe.

His gaze swept back to the leader, who stood perfectly still, visibly shaken by the massacre. Dean couldn't help himself. "That's what you call divine wrath? Try again, scumbag!"

The monster snarled, turning to flee, but Crowley cut him off, holding his blade up malevolently. "Going somewhere?" The werewolf froze, obviously inexperienced with demonic teleportation. Crowley sneered. "I didn't think so. Now then, I believe we were on the subject of emeralds."

 **SPN**

About three hours into the flight, they hit massive turbulence. Anya Graham sat comfortably in a recliner, unfazed by the violent convulsions, but worried about their captive. She watched him in open dismay—trying to conceal her emotions would have been pointless. She knew all about Arthur Ketch and his uncanny ability to profile both monsters and humans. If he lived up to his reputation, he already had her figured out, so why bother pretending?

She wasn't just Jiaying's stewardess. She was also Jiaying's confidant, and the reclusive heiress had long admired the American hunters for their grit, resourcefulness, and honor—especially the Winchesters. They routinely risked their lives to protect the innocent, and they never asked for anything in return. They weren't wealthy, they weren't educated, and they had no legal authority. If they weren't careful, their selfless courage would get them arrested, and for that, Jiaying claimed they were better than the Men of Letters.

But that didn't mean the heiress could oppose the ancient organization, or object to their methods. She belonged to them. She was born into their ranks—like the Winchesters—and membership was for life. She could run, she could cloister herself in the middle of nowhere, but when the 'old men' required something from her, she had to comply. And so, she allowed them to commandeer her private jet, as much as it upset her.

" _After all these years,"_ Jiaying lamented after her conversation with Lord Godwinson. _"I hoped they would leave Sam and Dean alone. So much for that."_

Anya offered to make the journey with the young hunter, to help him if she could, but Jiaying warned her in no uncertain terms not to cross the infamous Arthur Ketch. He was a cold, merciless bastard with a warm, friendly smile—a true psychopath—and he wouldn't hesitate to punish Anya for the slightest obstruction.

Still… Anya sympathized with Sam. She couldn't believe the extent of his injuries. Had Ketch done all that to him? How did he get away with it? Where was Dean?

When the jet cleared the turbulence, Anya unbuckled her seatbelt and ventured to the galley. She had to do something. She couldn't just sit there and watch while Sam suffered for no apparent reason. He wasn't their enemy. Hell, he was a legacy! He deserved their guidance, not their brutality. And if Anya couldn't rescue him, at the very least, she could make him more comfortable. After all, there was no reason for him to be awake, was there? Better for him to sleep, rest, and recover.

She quietly retrieved a bottle of zolpidem along with a pill crusher. It wasn't ideal, but she had to be stealthy, or Ketch might stop her. He wasn't known for his compassion. Biting her lip, Anya removed a single tablet and crushed it. Then, she filled a plastic cup with water and mixed in the powder. There. Ketch would never know.

Turning, she made her way back into the cabin, eyes on Sam. The poor hunter was strapped so tightly to his seat, he could barely move. Despite the blanket she had draped over his body, he was still shivering, and Anya hoped he wasn't sick. She glanced around at Ketch, who had set up his laptop on a nearby table where he was scrutinizing the screen while nursing a glass of scotch.

Steeling herself, she broke his concentration. "Excuse me, sir?"

Ever so slowly, he turned his dark, penetrating gaze to regard her without a hint of emotion. It was unnerving.

Anya took a deep breath, and showed him the plastic cup. "With your permission, I'd like our passenger to drink more water. He's in bad shape, and we ought to keep him hydrated."

Ketch spared her a curt nod, and focused back on his computer. It was all Anya could do not to sigh in relief. As she made her way over to Sam, Brian Morris and Howie Baker—two of Jiaying's security guards—joined her side. Anya would need their help to make Sam cooperate. While Brian stripped off the captive's gag, Howie grasped his head, holding him steady. Sam flinched, groaning in protest, which made Anya cringe. She wished there was something more she could do to reassure the young man, but with the blindfold and the headphones, that was simply impossible.

When Brian pulled the handkerchief out of Sam's mouth, he gasped for breath. "Please…" he panted. "Ketch…? Just talk to me!"

Anya peered back at Ketch, but the son of a bitch wasn't paying the slightest attention. His captive was nothing to him but a piece of cargo, and as long as he remained safely in his place, Ketch was content to ignore him. Bastard.

Sam squirmed in discomfort. "Why are you doing this!?"

Brian grabbed his jaw, tilted his head back, and pried his mouth open. Anya took a cautious step forward and carefully poured in the water. At first, Sam gagged, but he didn't have the strength to resist for long. Soon, he was swallowing, and Anya could only hope he drank enough of the zolpidem to find some respite. When the cup ran out of water, she quickly turned away, reluctant to watch the guards once again subject Sam to his gag. Unfortunately, it wasn't as easy to tune out his anxious whimpers.

Anya scurried back into the galley—her small, pathetic refuge. She tossed the plastic cup into a waste basket, put away the bottle of zolpidem, and cleaned out the pill crusher. Then, she stood over the sink, waiting for her stomach to settle. Ten minutes later, she returned to the cabin, and reclaimed her seat. She couldn't help but notice Sam sagging forward, held up only by his shoulder straps, head lolling to the side. He was already drifting off. Good. She started to smile, but suddenly, a loud whistle broke the silence, and Sam's body convulsed.

Anya jumped, heart racing, while Brian, Howie, and even Ketch glanced up in surprise.

"The hell is that?" Brian exclaimed as Sam continued to writhe in violent, uncontrollable agony. Muffled sobs made it through his gag, each one a knife to Anya's heart.

"Nothing to worry about," Ketch said in a calm, nonchalant voice. "Merely the Somnus Inhibitor."

"The what?" Howie asked.

Ketch sighed, rolling his eyes. "The Somnus Inhibitor. A safety precaution to keep the lad awake. Can't have him falling asleep, now can we?"

Anya caught her breath.

"Why not?" Howie demanded.

"Long story short?" Ketch shrugged. "If he falls asleep, we all die."

Anya clenched her eyes shut. "I gave him a sleeping pill!" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the others staring at her. "I didn't know. I thought it would spare him some pain."

Ketch sneered. "How thoughtful of you." She forced herself to look at him, only to cower at his contempt. "A sleeping pill? Bravo. Now we have to put up with this racket…" he gestured carelessly at Sam, "until the bloody drug wears off."

Anya shook her head. "Can't you do something?"

"I could," Ketch replied. "But that would involve tampering with the Somnus Inhibitor, and I can't risk deactivating it. The lad must stay awake, at all costs. So maybe next time you'll think twice before overstepping your bounds." With that, he turned back to his computer and went about his business.

Gradually, Sam's sobs turned into muffled screams. His convulsions intensified, and Anya feared he might die. But then, Ketch wouldn't be so indifferent, would he? They needed Sam alive. Didn't they?

Regardless, the next few hours would be torture… and Anya was to blame.

Oh, God…

How would she ever forgive herself?

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	13. Kendricks

_**Author's Note:**_ _I have to thank you all so much for your patience. I swear, I never realized how time consuming my pregnancy would be. I can only imagine what it will be like when the baby arrives! Anyway, here's chapter 13—finally! I'll do my best to keep them coming. Thank you!_

 **SPN**

Madison shivered as she and her mysterious escort—Castiel—wandered through the trees, away from the interrogation. Dean didn't want her to witness it, and she got the impression he was ashamed of himself. She didn't object when he sent her away—she was still reeling from this sudden turn of events. Sam's brother… here, in Purgatory… saving her from Fenris… It was like a dream.

"This can't be happening," she whispered.

In the distance, they could both hear the ancient werewolf's screams, and Castiel mistook her shock for anguish. He sighed, glancing at her in concern. "He's your alpha, isn't he? As savage as he is, he took you in. Sheltered you from all the horrors of Purgatory. No one would think less of you for feeling… conflicted."

"Conflicted?" She stopped short, gawking at him. His eyes were deep and sympathetic, gentle but incomprehensible. He wasn't human, that much was certain. But neither was he like anything else she knew. He wasn't a monster. So what did that make him? "You think I'm loyal to Fenris?" She shook her head emphatically. "Is that why Dean sent us away? To keep me from interfering with the interrogation?" Her chest tightened. "I'm not loyal to that bastard! I would happily kill him myself!"

"No," he quickly replied. "That's not…" He trailed off, carefully considering his next words. "It has nothing to do with you. Time is of the essence. We must find what we're looking for as quickly as possible, and we can't delay. Dean must compel the beast to cooperate, and that requires a certain… skill set… which he's not proud to possess." He dropped his gaze, obviously uncomfortable. "Dean doesn't doubt you, Madison. He wants to help you, and that's why he sent us away. So he doesn't frighten you."

"Do you really think he can help me?" she asked, dropping her gaze. Years of subservience made it difficult to maintain eye contact, even with a friend, and she had no doubt her escort was a friend. His scent was gentle.

Nevertheless, when he spoke, his voice was grim. "I won't lie to you, Madison. It is possible. In fact, it's been done before."

 _It's been done before…_ She could hardly believe it.

"If Dean decides to smuggle you out of Purgatory," Castiel continued, "I will do everything in my power to assist him. But the truth is, you don't belong in that world, and it won't bring you respite."

Of course not. Why would it? After all, she was just a worthless she-wolf.

"You died," he pointed out, not unkindly. "And it wasn't fair. I acknowledge that. But there's nothing I can do to change it. If you go back, you will find yourself in exile. The people you loved in life, your family and friends, would never be able to cope with your return, and you would only endanger them with your presence. Trust me, the loneliness you suffer here will inevitably be magnified there. I'm sorry, but it's true."

Tears brimmed in her eyes. She could no longer hear Fenris screaming, and the sudden silence made her tremble. Maybe he was dead. "I just… I don't think I can survive this way."

A warm hand came down to rest on her shoulder. She flinched in surprise, but didn't shy away from the comforting gesture. "You might not realize it," Castiel observed. "But you are not alone. Other humans, all throughout history, have been turned against their will, and when they find themselves here, lost, confused, and afraid, they share your turmoil. Imagine if you could find them. Build your own pack. Remind them of their humanity. You could be the one to save them, Madison."

She shook her head. "I'm not strong enough."

"Says who? Fenris? Then prove him wrong."

Before she could think of a reply, her heightened senses warned her of Dean's approach—and much to her relief, he and the other one, Crowley, were alone. Quickly wiping her eyes, she struggled to compose herself. "Why don't we save Sam first? Then we can worry about me." She glanced up in time to see a sad smile flicker across her escort's face. A heartbeat later, it was gone.

"Very well," he said as Dean and Crowley marched into their line of sight, reeking of blood and death.

"You're not going to believe this," the human barked irritably. "The damn emerald's in a damn treasure trove. With a dragon!"

 **SPN**

It was after midnight when the G650 touched down on the private airfield near Kendricks Academy, but thanks to the time difference between Kansas and London, Ketch still considered it early evening, and was just starting to think about supper. A nice one. He deserved it, especially after the day he had.

The Somnus Inhibitor was a special hybrid of leading-edge technology and ancient magic. It worked by closely monitoring brain activity and, when necessary, unleashing the supernatural energy required to rouse the specimen from sleep. Pain was an unfortunate side effect, but it would not cause permanent damage, and would typically abate after thirty seconds. However, in this case, it went on for several hours, with Sam sobbing through his gag the whole time, all thanks to a moronic stewardess and her bloody sleeping pill. Honestly, Americans and their ill-conceived compassion! It always got them into trouble.

Fighting a headache, Ketch grabbed his briefcase and dashed off the jet as soon as the door opened. The two security guards would follow with their young asset in tow, and at this point, Ketch doubted they would have any difficulty handling him. Sam was awake, but exhausted and shaken from his ordeal. Combined with all his other injuries and encumbrances, he was—however momentarily—subdued. And as for the stewardess… well, she had learned her lesson, and would not soon forget it.

Despite the late hour, Lord Godwinson and the Academy's severe headmistress, Dr. Hess, were both waiting on the tarmac next to a Kendricks range rover, with a chauffeur standing behind them. Heaven forbid they walk from the airfield back to the main campus! It was only three miles… Ketch could glean from their taut expressions, visible beneath the glaring security lights, that Sam's destination was still undecided.

Of course, Godwinson had his own interests in mind, and wanted Ketch to convey Sam to his country estate in Oxford. Kendricks was no place for Lucifer's vessel, he maintained. It might jeopardize their students, and consequently the future of the London chapter house.

Dr. Hess disagreed. Much like the bunker, Kendricks Academy was fortified against every threat known to their ranks, and would not succumb to the fallen angel. And since Sam was, in fact, a legacy, what better place than Kendricks to confine him? The Americans would no doubt view his detainment as an abduction, which the Men of Letters would have to justify if they ever hoped to foster an allegiance. Perhaps their actions would gain legitimacy if they took the opportunity to initiate the lad. After all, he belonged to them. Sooner or later, he would need proper training. Why not now?

Personally, Ketch thought they were deluding themselves. The Americans were unreasonably stubborn, and the Winchesters were no exception. Hell, they defied angels! They would certainly defy the Men of Letters.

But that was hardly his concern. He didn't make the decisions; he simply followed orders.

"How was the flight, Mr. Ketch?" Godwinson asked in a raspy voice as the younger operative crossed the distance between them. "Uneventful, I trust?"

"Quite right, sir," Ketch dutifully replied before turning to greet Dr. Hess with a deferential nod. "Ma'am." She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him with her sharp, withering gaze. A lesser man would have balked at her displeasure, but after his stint in America, with all those boorish plebeians, Ketch found her presence both dignified and refreshing.

"You must be famished," Godwinson continued, feigning sympathy. He wasn't one to skip the pleasantries, but Ketch knew how anxious he was to claim his prize. "I'll have food brought to the hospital wing. Clearly you weren't exaggerating about the lad's condition."

Ketch glanced over his shoulder to see the guards approaching with their crippled asset. Sam remained strapped to his wheelchair, shivering, battered, and broken. Ketch had a reputation for his uncompromising work ethic, but even he had to admit, Lucifer was in a class of his own. "I'm afraid we can't do much to him that hasn't been done before."

The headmistress scoffed. "You disappoint me, Mr. Ketch. I assumed you, of all people, would know better than to underestimate our abilities."

Ketch stiffened despite himself. Fortunately, he wasn't obliged to respond—the guards had finally reached their side, and were awkwardly awaiting instructions.

But first, Dr. Hess loomed over Sam and snatched his jaw in her iron grip. He grunted, squirming in discomfort as she peeled a bandage off his cheek. Her thumb roughly probed the uncovered injury—a nasty gash—which made him moan. "It would seem Mr. Rawlings has his work cut out for him, but no matter. He's a promising medic. I'm certain he'll rise to the occasion." She glanced up at the guards. "Would you kindly load him into the cargo space?" She motioned toward the range rover. "We'll take it from there."

"Yes, ma'am." They hastened to obey, much to their credit.

Meanwhile, Ketch dared to speak out of turn. "With all due respect… should his brother fail to retrieve the stone, do we have a contingency plan for the devil? We can't stand between him and his vessel. Not indefinitely."

Godwinson grimaced, but as always, Dr. Hess stood firm. "Not to worry, Mr. Ketch. We're well prepared for battle—even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	14. Hopeless

_**Author's Note:**_ _So the first half of this chapter is one reason why I love fanfiction! It's so much fun to consider the different possibilities for those nagging questions. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

"You're tired," Madison observed without a trace of uncertainty in her voice, and Dean had to admit, she wasn't wrong. They had been hiking for hours, pausing only long enough to contend with the various monsters that sought to kill them. The sun had set, and the trees blocked out much of the moonlight, but that didn't slow them down. Dean's eyes were used to the dark, and for over a year now, he felt strangely at home in the night.

However, he was still human, and he was going on two days without sleep. On top of that, he was still recovering from his interrogation with Fenris. He would never admit it, especially in Crowley's presence, but even now, he remained haunted by those ten years in hell. Those last ten years when he couldn't resist his own depravity. Sometimes he could still hear Alastair's voice whispering in his ear, encouraging him to commit violent atrocities, and the shame was overwhelming. It could not be erased, no matter how many lives he saved.

Drawing from that nightmare to break Fenris took a lasting toll on the hunter. It weighed him down, threatening to engulf him, and only one thing kept him on his feet. Sam. How much worse was it for Sam? If Dean could barely cope with his memories of Alastair, how could he expect his brother to cope with Lucifer? There was simply no comparison. But try telling that to a concerned werewolf.

"You need to rest," she warned him. "Seriously. I can smell that dragon from here, and it's no joke. You're no good to anyone if you wear yourself out."

Dean clenched his jaw and pressed ahead. Thankfully, Cas and Crowley were on the same wavelength—they knew him well enough not to question his endurance, and kept hiking despite Madison's advice. "I'll be fine," Dean told her. "I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. Not when Sam's in danger." He left it at that, and Madison got the message.

Sam… Dean wondered how he was holding up, and tried not to think about the distance separating them. They weren't even in the same dimension! For all he knew, Lucifer could be standing on their doorstep, just waiting for an opportunity to break inside… and then what? Mom was no match for the friggin' devil, and Sam would do anything to keep her safe. Even consent.

Son of a bitch… This was taking too long.

Suddenly, Cas broke the silence. "Why would God create a human portal in a realm not meant for humans?"

The question came out of nowhere, and caught Dean off guard. "What?"

"It's something I've been asking myself since meeting Benny," the angel explained. "When reapers collect humans, their souls are carried to heaven or hell. Not Purgatory. God designed Purgatory specifically to contain leviathans. From the leviathans sprang Eve, and from Eve sprang the first wave of monsters. Purgatory is their domain. Humans were never meant to set foot here."

"Just what we need," Crowley grumbled. "Cosmic speculation with Castiel."

Dean couldn't help but share the demon's attitude. This was hardly the time. "What's your point, Cas?"

"The portal!" he insisted with growing conviction. "Why would God provide an escape hatch for humans when humans never come here? Present company excluded."

"You're the angel," Crowley spat. "You tell us."

Madison nearly tripped in surprise. "Angel!?" She began to stare at Cas in wide-eyed astonishment.

Of course, he didn't seem to notice. "Human tradition describes Purgatory as purification for souls to gain the holiness required to enter heaven. What if there's some truth behind the myth? What if there's a way for human-born monsters to purify themselves to restore their humanity? That would explain the portal's existence, at least in theory."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, man. That sounds too good to be true." He made it a point not to look at Madison—the idea would naturally intrigue her, and if she got her hopes up, she would probably be let down. She didn't deserve that.

"Dean's right," Crowley agreed. "You're spewing nonsense, Cas. It's a dog-eat-dog universe, and you're not doing anyone any favors by suggesting otherwise."

As they spoke, the terrain grew increasingly jagged and rocky. Dean had to watch where he stepped to avoid tripping over large chunks of limestone. It would have been easier to navigate in the day, but they couldn't afford to wait that long. Thankfully, as the ground sloped upwards, the forest began thinning out, and soon the moonlight broke through the trees.

"Does anyone else smell that?" Madison asked.

It was barely noticeable—at first—especially with the sulfur coming from Crowley, but the more they climbed, the more prominent it became. Ash. Just like Fenris described. It filled Dean's nose and made his eyes water.

Madison charged forward and the others hastily pursued. They were close, and while they didn't know the exact location of the cavern, they had a plan to find it.

"HEY GODZILLA!" Dean shouted at the top of his lungs. "ANYBODY HOME!? YOU HAVE SOMETHING WE WANT, AND WE'RE NOT LEAVING TILL WE GET IT!"

A slight tremor rippled beneath their feet. Dean grabbed a tree to steady himself while loose rocks scattered across the ground. Encouraged, he tried again. "COME ON OUT, YOU BIG LIZARD! WE DON'T GOT ALL NIGHT!"

"MY MOTHER ALWAYS SAID YOU LOT WERE OVERRATED, INCOMPETENT PILLOCKS!" Crowley pitched in. "AND THAT'S WHY YOU FANCY VIRGINS!"

"YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER!" Dean continued to roar. "WHEN WE FIND YOU, WE'RE GONNA SCRAPE EVERY LAST SCALE FROM YOUR WORTHLESS SKIN, UNLESS YOU GIVE US WHAT WE'RE LOOKING FOR!"

"WHAT ARE YOU, A COWARD!?" Cas demanded, eager to help. "COME OUT AND FIGHT!"

The ground began to shake in earnest. Dean braced himself as smoke and steam billowed into the air from unseen cracks and crevices. The last dragons he encountered had been disguised as humans… This time, it would be the real deal, and he shivered in anticipation.

"This way!" Madison veered to the left, scrambling uphill towards the foot of a massive mountain cliff. Dean caught his breath… A gap in the wall offered access to the cavern beneath the surface. They found it! Along with its dangerous occupant…

Thud…

Thud…

Thud…

Thud…

From out of the shadows emerged an iridescent, serpentine monster with bright, amber eyes. It snarled angrily, rearing back on its hind legs while spreading its wings—each the length of a commercial airplane.

Dean's heart stopped, and he could only wonder if he would ever see his brother again.

 **SPN**

Propped upright in the corner of another moving vehicle—probably in the cargo hold of another SUV—with his legs stretched out in front of him, Sam struggled to maintain his balance. He couldn't bend his knee with the splint in place, and there wasn't enough room to lie down, which was probably for the best. If he lay down, he'd have to fight the urge to sleep, and right now, he couldn't afford to sleep at any cost. Either the devil would come for him… or the round thumbtack that Ketch stuck on the side of his head would reactivate… and neither option appealed to him.

Instead, he tried to focus on a game plan. How was he going to get out of this? What information did he have? Not much. He had been taken by Ketch and put on an airplane. He was probably in England, but couldn't be sure of that, and with the blindfold and headphones rendering him disabled, he had no way of learning more. He couldn't talk. He couldn't fight. He couldn't defend himself.

 _I need help…_ But who would help him? Mom? She was on the other side of the Atlantic. Cas? He wouldn't be able to find Sam, and even if he could, the Men of Letters would have the wards in place to repel angels. So who did that leave?

No one…

A few faces came to mind. Jody. Eileen. Garth. Donna. Even Amelia. But he couldn't rely on them—not against the Men of Letters, and certainly not against Lucifer. His life wasn't worth risking theirs.

Crowley? Rowena? But why would they care?

Sam had no one. He was entirely on his own, and a deep ache filled his heart.

Mom would come for him.

But how did he know that?

Because family always comes for each other.

But how did he _know that?_ He didn't have a family. Not really.

" _Mom. For me… just, um… having you here… fills in the biggest blank."_

He so desperately wanted a mother… all his life… and he thought she understood, but still…

She left.

Sam wasn't the baby boy she longed for. Honestly, if anything, he was the reason she lost her chance to have a normal, happy family. She probably hated him. So why would she come for him? She wouldn't.

No one would.

As Sam grappled with his grief, the vehicle began decelerating and soon came to a smooth halt. He stiffened, bracing himself for more abuse, and sure enough, he was not left hanging.

Everything rocked as doors undoubtedly opened and closed. A cold draft on Sam's face was his only warning before a pair of hands clamped around his arm and dragged him forward. His knee flared in agony as stars exploded behind his eyelids. He howled, recoiling frantically, straining against his handcuffs, but helpless to resist. The next thing he knew, he was lying face-up on the ground. Straps were tightly fastened over his chest, waist, thighs, and ankles. He squirmed, moaning miserably.

Moments later, something shifted underneath him, and he realized he wasn't lying directly on the ground, but on a sturdy sheet of canvas-like material. A stretcher. His captors picked it up, and he felt the ground disappear beneath him. His stomach flipped as they began to walk. The stretcher swayed, tilted upwards, then leveled out. Stairs, perhaps?

They proceeded forward, occasionally rounding corners, for several minutes. Then, the stretcher tilted upwards a second time, and they climbed much farther than before. When it finally leveled out again, Sam wondered what floor he was on. More importantly, what building was he in? Where the hell was he? A frustrated, anguished whimper escaped his gag—not that he could hear it.

Eventually, the stretcher was placed on some kind of raised platform. A table? A counter?

Dread coursed through his veins. This was it. He was exactly where Ketch wanted him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

What now?

Much to his surprise—and relief—a pair of hands gingerly removed his headphones. He could hear!

"…won't damage the Somnus Inhibitor?" Ketch was in the middle of a question, and he actually sounded concerned.

"Not in the least!" someone replied in a cocky male voice with an English accent. "You needn't fret, Mr. Ketch. I've got it sorted."

"I should hope so, Mr. Rawlings. Otherwise, if the lad falls asleep, I reckon you'll be the first to die."

Whoever removed Sam's headphones proceeded to undo his gag. The handkerchief was pulled from his mouth, and he wasted no time trying to object. "Please! Let me go!"

Instead of answering, someone pressed what felt like a solid rubber muzzle over his nose and mouth. Startled, he bucked anxiously, making his restraints pinch his skin. An elastic strap was pulled around the back of his head, holding the muzzle tightly in place. It was heavy and oppressive.

"Just breathe," a man told him in a soft, short-winded voice. "You'll be all right."

Suddenly, air began blowing directly into his nose and mouth. Sam realized he was wearing an oxygen mask, and the discovery left him rattled. Why was he wearing a damn oxygen mask? And why would they remove his headphones, but not his blindfold? What the hell was going on!?

He couldn't stop shivering, and it wasn't entirely from the cold.

"Be careful with him," the breathless man exclaimed as several pairs of hands unfastened the straps to the stretcher. Sam would have lashed out, but his wrists were still cuffed behind his back, and his knee was still broken. He was at their mercy.

"On three," someone said as various people grabbed his arms, legs, feet, and shoulders. "One… Two… Three…" They lifted Sam off the platform and carried him to another section of the room. "Easy does it… Watch his head!" They gingerly lowered him onto the floor.

Except, it wasn't the floor. It was some kind of cramped container, and he barely fit—his shoulders brushed the walls on both sides—his toes tapped the opposite end. It almost felt like a…

Like a coffin.

Crap…

Something fell, landing firmly on the frame just inches above his body.

A lid?

Oh, god…

Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of running water.

Not again.

It rushed into the container from an entry point above him, icy and relentless. Sam recoiled, kicking his legs in a panic. Excruciating pain radiated out from his knee, and it was all he could do not to throw up.

They were going to submerge him—hence the oxygen mask. Sam would have been furious if he had the energy, but his heart wasn't in it. These bastards had taken everything from him.

He had nothing left.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _If Sam seems a little out of character, just remember, Lucifer has been messing with his head. A lot. Poor guy!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	15. The Greater Good

**SPN**

As much as Dean would have liked to slay a dragon, he wasn't properly armed. With all the weapons they brought into Purgatory, they never thought to include a blade forged with dragon's blood—which, in hindsight, the Men of Letters might have been able to provide, if they had been smart enough to ask. So now they were sitting ducks, gazing up at a creature that could flambé them simply by sneezing.

Awesome.

Dean glanced over at Crowley, who wore an expression of pure exhilaration. "GO! NOW!"

The demon didn't even hesitate. In the blink of an eye, he teleported himself onto the dragon's back, straddling it like a fiendish bull rider. Dean wouldn't be surprised if this was all just a game to him—the son of a bitch liked to cuddle with hellhounds. Dragons might be larger, but that didn't necessarily make them more dangerous—at least not to the demon—and when Dean first proposed his idea, Crowley had been thrilled.

"I knew I liked you for a reason," he had told the hunter in approval.

Now, he disappeared into thin air, taking the dragon with him as he teleported somewhere far, far away. It all happened so quickly, so easily, that Dean could barely process it. He stood frozen to his spot, sweating, panting… shocked, despite himself. Did that really just happen? How was he ever going to explain it to his mom?

" _Yeah, Crowley's technically the king of hell, and that makes him our natural enemy, but still… there are days when I don't know what we'd do without him."_

Seriously, when did their lives become so damn complicated?

"We should keep moving," Castiel said, interrupting Dean's thoughts. "You know how difficult Purgatory can be to navigate. It might take Crowley awhile to find his way back here—if the dragon doesn't eat him first."

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Madison asked, genuinely concerned. Dean couldn't remember if she knew what Crowley was. Did they ever mention that to her?

Better not. What good would it do?

"Don't worry about him," he told her instead. "He's like a bad penny. He'll turn up sooner or later. Always does." And with that, Dean took point, leading the way into the dragon's lair.

The large gap in the side of the cliff led into a massive tunnel that dipped down into the subterranean bowels of the mountain. Dean was expecting it to be cold, dark, and wet—like the sewers back in Portland—but it was actually warm, stuffy, and surprisingly illuminated. Dragons were known for breathing fire, and the group had to venture around countless piles of smoldering embers. The smoke and ash made Dean slightly nauseous, but he refused to give up now.

 _Hang on, Sammy… We're almost there…_

The tunnel gradually widened, opening into a chamber unlike anything Dean could imagine. Its size was mind boggling—it literally went on as far as the eye could see in every direction. Then, there was the gold… Mounds and mounds of glimmering gold. The dragon had more treasure than the friggin' Cave of Wonders! Where did it all come from? And how were they going to find the stone of heaven if they had to dig through the entire hoard? It'd be like searching for a needle in a haystack!

Thankfully, Cas wasn't fazed. "This way," he said, turning to the right and proceeding forward. "I can sense it."

"You can sense an emerald?" Madison asked skeptically, furrowing her brow.

Dean placed his hand on her back and gently nudged her after the angel. "It's not an ordinary emerald, and it's not called the 'stone of heaven' by accident. Apparently, it was stolen by Lucifer and went missing after the Fall."

"Lucifer!?" she squeaked. "You mean the devil, Lucifer? Satan? He's real?"

"Unfortunately," Dean grumbled. "He's the bastard threatening Sam." Madison gasped, and nearly stopped short, but Dean kept guiding her forward. "Right now, we're planning to use a dispelling ritual with the emerald to blast Lucifer as far away from Sam as possible. It won't get rid of him, but it should buy us some time to figure out our next move. I hope."

"What the hell does Lucifer want with Sam?" Madison asked, staring up at Dean in horror. It was obvious she still cared about his brother, but Dean wasn't prepared for the level of distress in her voice. He glanced down at her, at a complete loss for words.

Before he could think of a response, Cas began clambering up one of the golden mounds. It was an awkward climb—loose coins spilled onto the floor, clattering loudly while threatening to drag Cas down with them—but somehow, he managed to reach the top, where he disappeared from sight.

Moments later, his voice called back to them. "I found it!"

Dean let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "About damn time!" He charged up the mound of gold, following his friend. It shifted beneath his feet, treacherous and unstable, but Dean was determined. When he cleared the summit, he turned to help pull up Madison, who was close on his heels. They hastened to the other side, where they found the angel squinting at a giant emerald—it had to be at least twenty feet tall!

Dean's blood ran cold. "Son of a bitch…"

Madison shook her head. "You can't seriously expect us to move that…"

"No," Cas assured her, reaching out to reverently stroke the bright green surface. Shaped like a rectangle with cropped corners, the emerald featured long, narrow facets that resembled steps—or floor-length mirrors. It didn't sparkle like a diamond, but seemed to glow from deep within its core. Cas sighed. "Lucifer's crown was destroyed in the Fall. Only the stone survived, but I didn't expect it to survive in tact. It should be in pieces. I thought… I hoped to find fragments of it—not the whole thing."

Dean clenched his fists. "What the hell, Cas!? You said it was part of a crown! Crowns are supposed to sit comfortably… you know… on heads!"

The angel glared at him. "I said it was a crown to rival God's, not man's. In his true form, Lucifer is immense—hardly the size of a mere mortal. That should go without saying."

He had a point, which only pissed Dean off. "So what are we going to do?" he shouted irritably. "We didn't come all this way for nothing!"

"Can Crowley teleport it?" Madison asked, voice quivering as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Like he teleported the dragon?" Dean caught his breath, daring to hope, but Cas shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't recommend it. This emerald is divine, and Crowley is a demon." Madison jumped at the revelation, which made Dean grimace. Cas continued, "He's strong enough to handle some holy relics, I'll give him that, but the stone of heaven was claimed by Lucifer, and ironically, Lucifer does not tolerate corruption—demons least of all. He created them, but they deeply offend him. So between the emerald's purity and Lucifer's hatred, I doubt Crowley could survive disturbing it."

Frustrated, Dean buried his face in his hands. Could this day get any worse?

 _There has to be another way,_ he stubbornly told himself. _There's always another way!_

"We could break it," Cas said slowly, with an edge to his voice. Dean glanced up in time to watch him draw his angel blade. "A direct blow with this could shatter the emerald. We don't need all of it—a couple fragments should suffice."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I'm sensing a 'but.'"

"But," Cas acknowledged with a pained expression. "An act of such destruction against something so pure, so holy, would be sinful—a heinous crime—and the perpetrator would face dire consequences… fatal consequences."

Dean scoffed. "So whoever breaks it dies? Come on, Cas. Do you have any options that we can actually consider?" The angel's gaze drifted from Dean over to Madison, and the next thing he knew, she was nodding.

"I'll do it."

It took Dean a moment to process her words, and then he turned to gawk at her. "What?" She looked back at him with a timid expression, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and haunted… He must have heard wrong… But there was no mistaking Castiel's unspoken suggestion. Dean scowled. "No. Forget it."

Cas bowed his head.

But Madison stepped forward, holding out her hand. "It's okay," she said, reaching for the angel blade. "I can do this."

Dean's heart skipped a beat, and he frantically grabbed her wrist. "Are you outta your mind?" He sidled between her and the emerald. "No! No one's dying on my watch!"

She smiled sadly. "Dean… I'm already dead. I died ten years ago, remember? You talked me into it."

A lump formed in his throat. "That was a mistake! And it was a long time ago. Things have changed. I… I can get you out of Purgatory. I can even hook you up with a pack of werewolves! My friend, Garth…"

"And what good will that do?" she gently interrupted, somehow gaining confidence, despite the tears welling in her eyes. "I'm still a monster. You said it yourself—I can't just restore my humanity. So even if I live a long, happy life back on Earth, eventually I'll end up here, all over again, and I can't…" She trailed off, catching her breath.

Dean shook his head. Where was Sam? Sam could talk her out of this.

No he couldn't… He tried ten years ago, and failed.

"Madison," Dean whispered brokenly. "Please. I've lost too many friends."

"But you can still save your brother," she replied. "And stop Lucifer. I mean…" She chuckled mirthlessly. "If I can help fight the devil, then my death is worth it."

It was like Jo and Ellen all over again. No. Dean was in the business of saving people. Not leading them into battle where they would sacrifice themselves "for the greater good." He had seen too much of that, and it hurt more and more every time. Bobby… Kevin… Charlie… No. He stood his ground. "I won't let you do this."

She cocked her head, considering his resolve. "No. I suppose you won't… Thank you, Dean. I may not be able to restore my humanity, but at least I can remember it, which is a huge improvement from this morning." She wiped her eyes with her free hand—Dean was still clutching her other wrist. "Take care of Sam," she eventually said. "Tell him… Tell him no hard feelings."

Dean realized she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. "Madison…"

Abruptly, she backhanded him with the strength of a rabid werewolf. His vision darkened… his body flew through the cavern… he landed in a dense pile of gold… coins rattled around him… and everything went silent.

 **SPN**

Lord Gilbert Godwinson sat comfortably in a buttoned armchair across from the horizontal rejuvenation tank where the young Sam Winchester was recovering from multiple injuries. According to Arthur, most of them were inflicted by Lucifer—but not all. The overzealous field operative could sometimes take matters to the extreme, much like Toni, and that seemed to be the case in their present situation. A pity. Bert—as he preferred to go by—would much rather catch flies with honey.

And wasn't the Winchester boy a catch!? Lucifer's vessel… Angels were such a fascinating breed, and the Men of Letters still had so much to learn about them—especially the archangels. Sam and Dean might be human, but they shared a mysterious bond with Lucifer and Michael that Bert could not ignore. What made them compatible? What insights could they provide?

Bert had to study them. He had to. At his age, he was an expert in so many fields, few things could excite him anymore. To be honest, he was rather bored. He longed for the passion of his youth—for an interesting subject to hold his attention—for a puzzle to solve. The Winchesters certainly fit the bill… Bert would have had them both "picked up" years ago, if not for the Code.

Sam and Dean were legacies. True, they belonged to the defunct American chapter, and the British owed them nothing, but they were still legacies, and Bert could not objectify them out of respect for their predecessors. At least… not in the old days… But times were changing. His colleagues spoke of expansion; their sights were fixed on America. And with Lucifer free to roam the earth while Michael languished in the cage, desperate measures were required. Bert could learn so much from Sam and Dean, and his research could save the world.

But try telling that to Dr. Hess. She had a far different mentality—which had been gaining popularity since 1958, when Abaddon massacred the Yankees. Knowledge was not as powerful as the Men of Letters liked to think. Power was powerful. Sam and Dean were useful, Dr. Hess agreed, if they could help with the mission to win over the States. Therefore, they had to be… brought into the fold… recruited… initiated… whatever was necessary to advance the cause.

But when it came to Lucifer, Dr. Hess had a more aggressive strategy. They could not rely on Bert's research, she argued. Lucifer was a threat now. He had to be quelled. Now. The cost would be high, there was no doubt, but sacrifices were necessary for the greater good. Not even Bert could deny that.

After lengthy deliberations, the elders came to a compromise. First of all, Sam had to be sheltered. Under no circumstances could they allow Lucifer to occupy his true vessel. Therefore, if Dean retrieved the stone of heaven, and if he pulled off the dispelling ritual to banish Lucifer from Sam's subconscious, it would afford them some time for Bert to proceed with his research. But if Dean failed, then Dr. Hess would take command, and sacrifices would be made.

Bert sighed. He didn't understand why he couldn't just begin his work. He knew what Dr. Hess had planned, and their objectives were not mutually exclusive, so why the delay?

Because, his colleagues would argue, the stone of heaven could only help them win a single battle. Bert's research would still be necessary to win the war. On the other hand, Dr. Hess could potentially lead them to victory in one fell swoop. The death toll would be devastating, making it their last resort, but if it came to that, then Bert's research would be irrelevant. Lucifer would no longer be a threat, and the Men of Letters could turn their attention back to America. The Winchesters were still assets, and Bert's research would not help them salvage their foreign relations.

Bloody politics…

"How much longer?" he presently asked the only other man in the private treatment room—Renny Rawlings, a well-bred youngster with flaxen hair, a thin frame, and a suave demeanor. He was standing at a work station with several monitors attached to the rejuvenation tank, which allowed him to track Sam's recovery.

"Hard to say…" He spoke in a casual, disinterested tone. Since graduating at the top of his class, he couldn't be bothered to treat anyone with any degree of respect—other than Dr. Hess, who favored him. "His knee is healing quite nicely, but the lacerations and the burn are proving less than cooperative. Arthur claims the damage was caused by Lucifer, in which case, the process could take several more hours—if it's at all viable. We might have to ask ourselves how long we can justify expending our resources on a futile endeavor."

Bert wrinkled his nose. While he could still conduct his research, regardless of the lad's health, it would all be so much easier if they could secure Sam's trust.

Damn Toni. She had to spoil everything.

Disgruntled, Bert focused back on his obsession. Sam was awake, but his wrists were still cuffed behind him, and his face was covered by the blindfold and oxygen mask. He could do nothing but hang suspended in the fluid that filled his tank. Occasionally, he would squirm and kick his legs, but he was in no danger of escaping. He had to feel so frustrated…

Bert could relate.

 _I will study him,_ he thought to himself. _One way or the other… I don't care what it takes._

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	16. Deception

**SPN**

 _Blood… It was everywhere… Dripping from the walls… Covering the floor… Staining Grace Sawyer's barbaric hands… When did they become capable of this?_

 _Lying at her feet, in a deep pool of blood, was her best friend in the world, Rachel Clayton. They had known each other for years—ever since they arrived at Kendricks. They played together, studied together, laughed together, wept together… Sisters in all but name._

 _It didn't make sense. How could she do this? How was it possible?_

"Only one of you will be leaving this room…"

 _The cold, calculating certainty in the headmistress' voice would torment Grace for the rest of her life. Dr. Hess would not be mocked. The students had no choice but to obey. If they were to become full-fledged Men of Letters, they had to prove their allegiance to the Code above all else. Above family. Above friends. Even above their own conscience. If they could not make such a commitment, they would be expelled, and according to rumor, expulsion meant death. After all, the Men of Letters had secrets to protect._

 _Grace didn't want to die—she was only twelve years old! It was not devotion to the elders or respect for the Code that compelled her to duel Rachel. No. It was simple cowardice. By killing her best friend, Grace advanced to the next level of her training… but in the process, she was stripped of her innocence… her humanity… her hope… her future… It wasn't right… She would never see Rachel again… It wasn't right!_

" _I came as quickly as I could."_

 _The warm, gentle voice with its motherly American accent caught Grace by surprise. She gasped, whipping around to find a stranger standing in the doorway. A grown-up woman with long golden hair, dressed in faded jeans and a soft lavender sweater. With a sad but kind expression on her doll-like face, she seemed so different from Dr. Hess that Grace was inclined to trust her._

" _Who are you?" she asked meekly._

 _The woman crouched down so they were eye-level. "I'm the answer to your prayers," she said vaguely. "And I'm so sorry I wasn't here in time to save Rachel. I came as quickly as I could."_

 _Tears brimmed in Grace's eyes. "You're not real. I'm dreaming."_

" _Just because you're dreaming doesn't mean I'm not real," the woman assured her. "I'm an angel, Gracie. I want to help you, but I can't reach you—not in the physical realm. This Academy…" Her gaze surveyed the bloody room. "It's a fortress, kept secure with powerful, protective wards. They can't be breached. I can't get in."_

 _Grace caught her breath. Of course she knew about the Academy's defenses, but… "I don't understand… Those wards are meant to keep out evil. Why would they repel an angel?"_

 _The woman sighed. "Oh, Gracie… What separates good from evil? Who makes that decision? Your headmistress? The woman who forced you to slaughter your best friend?" Grace flinched at the reminder, bowing her head in shame. "I hate to say it, child," the woman continued. "But there's evil here right now, presiding over this wretched place, and those monsters want nothing to do with angels. I'm sorry."_

 _The fear was crippling, and Grace would have fled if she thought she could escape… But Dr. Hess would find her… and the penalty for running was expulsion. Death._

 _She gazed desperately at the angelic woman. "Can you save me?"_

 _The woman smiled. "I can—and I can save all the other children—but not with those wards intact. Gracie… I need your help."_

 **SPN**

The pale morning sun glimmered dimly through the trees when Dean opened his eyes. He groaned, then coughed as smoke and ash besieged his nose and mouth. Memories of the dragon and its suffocating lair returned to him, along with an all-too-familiar pang deep inside his chest. Madison!

He sat up quickly, blood rushing to his brain. The world seemed to spin, but he managed to contain his nausea while taking stock of his surroundings. He was back in the woods, a safe distance from the mountain cliff. Crowley was lurking to the left; Cas and Madison were nowhere to be seen.

"Son of a bitch…"

The demon peered over at him with an amused smirk. "So, Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up! And here I thought I'd have to kiss you." For someone who had flown off with an angry dragon, Crowley looked no worse for wear. Teleportation had its perks, and he was clearly in a good mood.

Dean ignored him, checking to make sure he still had all his weapons and belongings. Then, he clambered stiffly to his feet, grasping the nearest tree for support. "What happened?"

Crowley shrugged. "I was on my way back when I felt a massive shock wave that sent every monster for miles scrambling to find shelter. When I reached the entrance to the cave, I found Feathers dragging you outside. He said he had to go back in to scavenge for bits of the emerald and asked me to keep watch over you. I've been here ever since."

Dean set his jaw and glanced up at the cliff, worry writhing inside him. It was already morning, so he must have been out for hours. What could be taking Cas so long? Was he all right?

Despite a throbbing headache, Dean set off to find his friend.

"My dance with the dragon went very well, by the way!" Crowley blurted out as he trailed after the hunter. "She's a temperamental beast, but so was Juliet. I'm confident I could tame her in a single weekend—if I had the time. Thanks for asking."

"No one cares, Crowley."

The demon huffed, feigning displeasure. "Well, see if I ever stick my neck out for you again."

Thankfully, as they came to the foot of the cliff, Castiel was already on his way out of the cavern, face smeared with dirt and grime. Dean wondered if he was likewise filthy, even as he searched for signs of Madison. "Where is she!?"

The angel stopped short, grimacing. "Dean…" The grief was evident in his voice.

Fury surged through the hunter's veins and he charged forward, punching Cas hard in the face, knocking him off his feet. "How could you!? How could you let her do that!? I could have saved her!"

"It was the only way," Cas said apologetically, having the good sense to remain sprawled out on the ground. He might not have been hurt by the blow, but too many sudden movements would only aggravate his friend. "And it was her decision."

"You talked her into it!"

Cas shook his head. "I merely expressed the need. I'm sorry, Dean. I am. But every moment we waste here provides Lucifer with more time to harass Sam. It's been two days! We can't be second-guessing ourselves!"

Dean fumed. It wasn't fair. Madison deserved better—as did all their friends. Sam still had nightmares about Kevin, and losing Sarah broke his heart, even though they hadn't seen each other in a span of eight years. Time did nothing to numb the pain. Losing Madison now would open old wounds and hurt Sam as much as it had all those years ago, and Dean wouldn't be able to protect him… unless they hid the truth.

As Dean grappled with his emotions, Cas climbed warily to his feet.

Meanwhile, Crowley had enough. "Look, do we have the bloody stone or don't we?" Cas nodded, reaching somberly into his coat pocket to extract a broken, fist-sized emerald. As soon as the demon saw it, he stiffened, taking an involuntary step backwards. "Bollocks."

"Lucifer was at his peak in the days when he possessed this stone," Cas reminisced. "He not only cherished it, he poured himself into it. Even now, this single fragment contains a measure of his extreme self-righteousness, and it will not suffer demonic influence."

"So I shouldn't touch it, then," Crowley gathered.

"No."

Dean barely registered a word of their conversation. He was too distracted. "We can't tell Sam!" His exclamation caught them both off guard. They turned to stare at him with blank expressions, so he clarified. "We can't tell him about Madison. It'll crush him." Cas looked away, contrite, while Crowley rolled his eyes. Dean insisted. "Promise me!"

Cas wouldn't meet his gaze, but still obliged. "I promise."

Dean glanced anxiously at Crowley, who shook his head.

"Oh, no. I don't make promises."

"Promise me, so I can focus my attention back on ganking Lucifer, so you can reclaim your damn throne!"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said shrewdly. "When you put it like that…" He squared his shoulders and mustered all his integrity. "You have my word."

Dean exhaled, able to breathe again.

"We should go," Cas said, stuffing the emerald back in his pocket. "It's not wise to linger in a place like this. Dean, do you still have Mick's compass?"

The small, antique compass that was supposedly attuned to Earth's location and could guide them back to the exit portal. "I better," Dean grumbled, fishing it out of his own pocket. They had a lot of ground to cover, and if the compass didn't work as advertised, they'd be screwed. For Sammy's sake, Dean hoped the Men of Letters were good at their jobs.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	17. Voices

**SPN**

When the water began draining out of the cramped container, Sam barely noticed. He wasn't just exhausted, he was also despondent and inert from hours of immersion. His knee felt infinitely better, but his other injuries were as sore as ever, especially the bullet wound. To make things worse, his extremities were oddly sluggish, and he wondered if his captors drugged him. God only knew what else was in that water.

Eventually, he heard the container's lid open and hands reached in to remove the splint and the oxygen mask—they did not touch the blindfold. Sam shivered as frosty air hit his face, but he didn't bother complaining. He had nothing to say to any of them… whoever they were. Ketch and his psychopathic buddies. They wouldn't listen to him anyway, so why bother?

"It appears the lad is cold," observed the man with the short-winded voice—his clipped tone betrayed his displeasure. "Forgive me, Mr. Rawlings, but it was my understanding these tanks feature heating systems."

"Indeed, they do," came the curt reply. "And it's set comfortably, I can assure you."

The water had been freezing, but Sam assumed Lucifer was to blame for that.

" _Say yes, or I'll never let you warm up. You'll spend the rest of your life—the rest of eternity—with hypothermia. I guarantee it."_

Lucifer was not one for idle threats.

"It must have something to do with his remaining injuries," the curt voice—Mr. Rawlings—surmised. "The rejuvenation tank can only do so much against the devil's handiwork. No matter. Let's dry him off and get him cleaned up."

Sam's breathing hitched as more hands pulled him, gently but firmly, from the container. He tried to shake them off, but his body was unresponsive—weak and listless, like jelly. God, he was so tired… They eased him down onto the floor, where they removed his handcuffs. His wrists and shoulders welcomed the relief, but he heard himself moaning when his captors began ridding him of his wet clothes and scrubbing him dry with a large towel.

Lucifer's voice whispered sagely in his mind. _"Get angry, Sam. It's the only way they'll take you seriously."_

"Don't be afraid, lad," the breathless man advised him. "We're not going to hurt you. We merely want to help."

"I don't want your help!" Sam replied as viciously as he could… which wasn't saying much. His voice came out hoarse and pathetic.

Lucifer sighed. _"Needs some work, kiddo. Remind me to pick you up some demon blood. Crowley's! We should start with Crowley's."_

Sam felt sick as they hauled him onto a counter where they removed all his sodden bandages.

"Now then," Rawlings said in a pitiless tone. "Shall we take a look at what's ailing the lad?"

They began at his feet, inspecting each one before zeroing in on the burn. Sam couldn't see what they were doing, but he definitely felt it when they applied some kind of ointment to the injury. He recoiled in pain.

"No! Stop!"

Countless hands bore down on him, holding him still before he could lash out.

"It's okay, Sam," the breathless guy assured him from the head of the counter, where he took the opportunity to rest his hands on Sam's shoulders in a poor attempt to soothe him. "This won't take long, and when we're done here, you'll feel better."

Sam snarled. "Go to hell."

"Well, there's gratitude for you," Rawlings mocked while wrapping Sam's foot in medical gauze. "And they say he's the civil one? Honestly… hunters…"

"Frankly, Mr. Rawlings," the breathless guy objected. "If you had half these injuries, I should think your manners would likewise suffer."

They worked their way up, treating the bullet wound in Sam's leg, the scars on his chest, the gash on his hand, and the cuts on his face. Through it all, Sam had to endure derisive comments from Rawlings about his shoddy first aid skills, and unsettling 'comfort' from the other man about how they would take care of him.

Gradually, Sam felt strength returning to his limbs. He was still exhausted and depleted, but whatever numbing agent had been in the water seemed to be wearing off. He renewed his efforts to resist, struggling to sit up, to kick and throw punches, to get rid of his damn blindfold, but that only made his captors tighten their grips—and they considerably outnumbered him.

"That should do for now," Rawlings said when he finished his ministrations. "Let's get him dressed in some proper clothes."

They proceeded to wrestle him into a pair of soft, smooth trousers and a thin, lightweight shirt that took awhile to button. Both articles fit perfectly, and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know how they anticipated his exact size. Then, as an afterthought, because he was still shivering, they supplied him with a sweater vest—not that it did much good.

"Now that's more like it," the breathless guy said in satisfaction. "You look quite presentable, Sam."

" _He's not wrong,"_ Lucifer agreed.

"Shut up!"

"Dr. Hess assigned him Remedial Room Four," Rawlings informed his cohorts. "I suggest you get him settled while I make my report."

"Yes sir," came an unfamiliar voice.

Sam was roughly yanked off the counter. The moment his feet touched the floor, agony radiated out from both the burn and the bullet wound, which made him gasp. His knees buckled, and he would have landed on his face if not for the group of thugs ready to catch him.

"Is it really wise for him to be walking in his condition?" the breathless guy asked in concern.

"He'll live," Rawlings replied. "The Remedial Rooms aren't that far."

With that, Sam's captors began ushering him away from the counter. He did his best to make it difficult for them, but he couldn't dig his feet into the ground without exacerbating the burn, and as much as he thrashed against them, he didn't have the coordination to escape. They were relentless, manhandling him with practiced ease toward their new destination.

A few minutes later, Sam was wrenched around and knocked onto a large, deep chair. It was hard, cold, and stable, with a low back that failed to reach his shoulder blades. His arms were jerked onto the long armrests, which protruded so far forward, he found himself scooting to the edge of the seat. Shackles snapped tightly over his wrists, locking his arms in place, while someone shoved him as far back as the chair allowed, forcing him to lean forward at a slight angle. A belt was promptly buckled around his waist to prevent him from readjusting, while fetters were applied to his ankles to prevent him from kicking. It was an awkward and uncomfortable position, and Sam's face would have flushed angrily if he wasn't still so cold.

"Will that be all, sir?" someone asked.

"For now, Percy," the breathless man allowed. "You may go."

As the majority of his captors filed out of the so-called Remedial Room, Sam listened to another chair sliding across the floor. It stopped in front of him, no doubt for the breathless man to sit and scrutinize him—reminiscent of Toni Bevell.

"I'd like to apologize for the accommodations," he told Sam in a gentle, conciliatory tone. "This wasn't my first choice, but the elders have deemed it necessary, given the circumstances. My name is Gilbert Godwinson."

Godwinson? Sam stiffened. He recognized the name, but from where?

Ketch's voice echoed in his memory. _"And when everything's said and done, you could very well be Lord Godwinson's new protégé! He's had his eye on you for quite some time, and believe you me, that's quite an honor. I can assure you, no one regrets Lady Bevell's transgression more than he does, and he fully intends to make it up to you. Just you wait."_

Sam shook his head, breathing heavily. In his experience, having the personal attention of a bad guy never ended well.

If Godwinson could see Sam's alarm, he didn't acknowledge it. "Now then… what do you say the two of us get to know each other?"

 **SPN**

It was shortly after noon in Wiltshire when Dean, Cas, and Crowley returned to Earth by way of a trilithon at Stonehenge—which meant a throng of sightseers were close enough to witness their unexpected arrival. Normally, such exposure would horrify Dean, but in this case, he didn't care. Between the loss of Madison and the ongoing threat of Lucifer, he didn't have the emotional capacity for anything else. Besides, he happened to glimpse Mick Davies standing in the distance, and he figured, if the Men of Letters were so smart, they could manage some crowd control.

"Crowley," he said, glancing over at the demon, who already knew his request. In the blink of an eye, they teleported halfway around the world to Lebanon, Kansas, where it was shortly after six in the morning. Dean made a beeline for the entrance to the bunker, praying that Sam would be okay. He had to be okay. It wasn't the first time he went a couple days without sleep—although Dean would rather not dwell on those memories. They just had to hold out awhile longer to perform the dispelling ritual. Once they banished Lucifer from Sam's subconscious, they could relax. It wouldn't solve all their problems, but it would definitely be worth celebrating.

They were so close… It was almost over…

Unlocking the front door, Dean pushed his way inside—where he instantly observed the red emergency lights switching off while the bunker's main lights came back on. His heart skipped a beat. Son of a… That wasn't a good sign!

"SAMMY!"

With Cas and Crowley on his heels, Dean barreled down the steps into the war room. When no one answered him, he proceeded into the library where he couldn't miss the broken chair and blood splattered on the floor. Signs of a struggle. His heart began to race, and he shook his head. "No… no, no, no, no… SAM!?"

"Dean?"

Mary appeared from the kitchen, wearing a green field jacket over a flannel shirt. Her face was pale, and she walked with a limp, but she was alive, and Dean could hardly contain his relief. He stormed over to her and pulled her into a tight, urgent embrace. As she returned the hug, he peered into the kitchen behind her, desperate for some trace of his brother… discouraged when he found none. What the hell happened?

After a beat, Mary drew back. "Dean…" There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, or the worry in her eyes. "The night after you left, Lucifer compelled Sam to fall asleep."

Dean's blood ran cold, and it took all his discipline not to interrupt.

Mary continued. "I used African Dream Root to go after him. It was reckless, I know, but I had to do something."

"Winchesters…" Crowley grumbled.

Mary ignored him. "We were unconscious… We weren't prepared."

Dean just stared at her, struggling to process her words.

Meanwhile, Cas took a wary step towards them. "Prepared for what?"

Her gaze drifted from her son over to the angel and back again. "A man. He called himself Arthur Ketch. He's with the British Men of Letters, and somehow, he not only broke into the bunker, he was able to wake us both up before Lucifer could…" She trailed off, grimacing, and it wasn't hard to guess what she was going to say.

So… after Dean told Mick and Bert about Lucifer's claim on Sam, they must have sent an agent to the bunker to keep an eye on him, just in case. It was disturbing to realize how easily the Men of Letters could enter their home—first Toni Bevell, and now this Arthur Ketch person—but if they saved his family from Lucifer, Dean was more than willing to thank them.

Except… where was Sam? Why was Mary so upset? "Mom…?" he whispered.

She took a deep breath, averting her eyes. "Apparently, Ketch had orders from the Men of Letters to abduct Sam."

Dean blinked. _The hell…?_

"I couldn't stop him. He shot me in the leg and knocked me out. By the time I woke up, they were both gone, and the doors were locked. My phone stopped working, and I've been trapped here ever since."

Like when the angels fell… Dean vaguely recalled Kevin rambling about the bunker locking down. At the time, they shrugged it off as a fluke—the system had reset when Dean opened the door from the outside, so it didn't seem like a big deal. Dean had other things to prioritize—Crowley, Abaddon, the fallen angels—specifically the angel inside his brother…

In hindsight, they should have given it more attention.

Sammy…

Sam…

Sam wasn't here…

It took a moment for the truth to sink in…

But when it did, Dean quickly saw red.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	18. Anger

**SPN**

"Oh, come now, Sam," Godwinson coaxed after a long, drawn-out moment of tense silence. "I realize we haven't made the best first impression, and I regret that. Truly. But I can promise you, we are on the same side. I should like nothing better than to be friends. Please, lad. Let's talk. Where's the harm in that?"

Sam choked down a scoff. The last thing he wanted was to engage with and encourage his captors, but then again, if he played nice, maybe he could find a weak spot. A chink in their armor. Of course, that was easier said than done. "You know, I think the chair in that basement where Toni Bevell tortured me was more comfortable than this one," he heard himself growl.

Godwinson sighed. "Yes, I do apologize for that. Unfortunately, the less comfortable you are, the less likely it is you'll fall asleep, and right now, that's our primary objective. I'm sure you don't want to reactivate the Somnus Inhibitor, am I wrong?"

The what? Oh… The bizarre thumbtack Ketch stuck on the side of his head. Was that still there? Sam squirmed in his seat, clenching his fists at the memory of being zapped for several hours on that damn airplane. "Look… I'm a hunter. Obviously, I live an extremely active lifestyle. If you really want me to stay awake, you have to let me get up and move around."

"I wish I could allow that," Godwinson patiently assured him. "But you have a severe burn on one foot and a bullet wound in your other leg. You're in no condition for exercise."

Sam fumed at the way he spoke like a concerned parent, but still tried to maintain his composure. "Can you at least take off the blindfold? How can we really get to know each other if I don't even know what you look like?"

He could almost hear his captor smiling. "I'm sorry, Sam. It was all I could do to convince my colleagues to relieve you of the gag and the ear plugs. Unfortunately, they are insisting on the blindfold, at least for now. But I'll continue to advocate on your behalf. You have my word."

Smug bastard had an answer for everything. Sam felt the frustration swelling inside him, with no outlet to escape. He set his jaw, pulling on his arms to test his restraints, but the shackles around his wrists were unyielding.

"I do hope you understand why these measures are necessary," Godwinson said sympathetically. "Dean told us all about the devil's claim on you."

Dean?

Sam froze at the mention of the unfamiliar name. Godwinson spoke as if he should recognize it… but he didn't, and he couldn't explain the sense of loss that suddenly engulfed him. _Dean?_

" _It's nothing, kiddo…"_ Lucifer crooned softly in his mind. Sam stiffened, heart racing. _"Just one of those pleasant dreams that fade away…"_

 _No… Please!_

" _The more you cling to them, the faster they recede… till they're gone forever…"_

"You've been compromised, Sam," Godwinson continued calmly. "You're not yourself, not completely, and we can't be sure how much influence the devil has over you. Until we've dispelled him from your subconscious, we have no choice but to confine you, for everyone's safety—including your own. But rest assured, it's nothing more than a temporary precaution."

Sam frowned. "Can you… can you really do that? Dispel Lucifer?"

"Well…" Godwinson hesitated, considering his response. "That's sensitive information, and like I said, you've been compromised." The devil could be listening… "But trust us, Sam. We're here to help."

A woman's voice echoed in his memory.

" _And, while you might not believe this, Sam… we're here to help."_

He shivered as indignation sparked inside him. "She… she said the exact same thing."

"Who?"

"Toni Bevell."

Silence filled the room. Godwinson had strayed onto thin ice, and he knew it. "Sam," he eventually said, a hint of wariness in his voice.

"You know, she made it pretty damn clear she thinks I'm a joke." Sam shook his head. "'Just a jumped-up hunter playing with things I don't understand and doing more harm than good.' But the truth is, you're the joke. Not me."

"Sam…"

"We never would have released the Darkness if we weren't dealing with the Mark of Cain!"

 _We? Who—?_

" _Don't worry about that, Sammy!"_ Lucifer exclaimed. _"Keep going! You're on a roll!"_

Listening to Lucifer was never a good idea, but Sam couldn't help himself—he was so angry. "I was desperate! I was alone, and I felt like I was drowning, and you weren't there to help me then!" He tried to remember the specifics… He had been on the verge of losing… something…? Something important—more important than life itself… He tried to visualize it… But all he could see was the dark, weathered face of Cain, and it terrified him.

He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I did what I had to do… The Mark… It was poison!" He took a deep breath, uncertainty, fear, and resent swirling inside him. "But as far as anyone knew, it was necessary to kill Abaddon." He clenched his fists. "You know, the Knight of Hell who butchered the Men of Letters in 1958? That must have been a good twenty-five years before I was born." He never asked for any of this… It wasn't his fault… "So you want to hold me responsible for the Darkness? Go ahead. But it all started with your mess, not mine." His agitation made him restless—he wanted out of the chair—and he writhed bitterly when the restraints held him down. "I did everything I could… and you just watched from a distance. When I needed your help the most, you weren't there! So what makes you think I want your help now!?"

He didn't have the energy to keep going, and found himself sagging miserably. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he was suddenly grateful for the blindfold. He couldn't have Godwinson guessing that, beneath all his anger, he was mourning the loss of something he could barely comprehend.

" _Thatta boy, Sam,"_ Lucifer applauded. _"I knew you still had that fire in your belly. Just sit tight. I'm coming to get you, and I'll be there as fast as I can."_

 **SPN**

When Dean and his two associates—for lack of a better word—emerged through the trilithon, Mick Davies could hardly believe his eyes. Of course, he knew the notorious hunter's reputation as well as anyone. He never doubted that Dean would return from Purgatory; he was merely surprised by the man's punctuality. He assumed it would take much longer.

The timing was certainly inconvenient. Mick would have preferred less exposure—mass sightings were tricky to manage. When it came to supernatural hot spots like Stonehenge and Loch Ness, the Men of Letters had safeguards in place to detect imminent activity and respond by immediately scrambling all technology in a defined radius. Phones, cameras, and other devices were never an issue. But the necessary mind wipes? Those were onerous, especially with crowds…

It took thirty minutes to 'reset' all the witnesses, but it felt like hours. By the time he finished the task, Mick was physically and mentally drained. He staggered over to his Rolls-Royce, climbed into the driver's seat, and gently placed his head on the steering wheel. Dean and his two associates were back on Earth. Did that mean they were successful? Had they obtained the stone of heaven? If so, it would be the discovery of a lifetime! Granted, no one could ever know—the Men of Letters would naturally keep it under wraps—but Mick always gave credit where it was due, at least in private, and he had to admit, Dean was impressive.

He idly wondered what the emerald looked like.

"Can't say I'd want to be in your shoes at the moment," came an unexpected voice beside him. Mick jumped, sat up, and whipped his head around to find the Winchesters' demon in his passenger seat. Crowley smirked. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't eager to watch."

With that, he snapped his fingers, and suddenly, Mick felt himself being dragged away. Away from his car, and away from his country.

 **SPN**

When people spoke of history repeating itself, Dean never had to take it quite so personally… until now. But now, Lucifer was stalking his brother—again. He had to endure the nightmares of Purgatory—again. And because he could never catch a break, he had to rescue Sam from the Men of Letters—again. Fury churned inside him, but somehow—after his initial eruption, which made the library a disaster zone—he managed to pull himself together.

Now, he stood in the bunker's dungeon, outwardly calm as he spread out several 'tools' on a large workbench. He didn't know if they would intimidate a man like Mick Davies, but honestly, they didn't have to. Dean wasn't in the mood for scare tactics. If the situation called for it, he would make full use of his skills and resources to find his little brother. He just hoped his mom would understand…

Mary was making her way around the perimeter of the dungeon. It was her first time down here, and she was intrigued by the spell work engraved on all the manacles. She didn't say anything, but then again, there wasn't much to say. Dean knew how she felt—he recognized the look in her eyes from his own reflection. Sam was kidnapped on her watch. It wasn't her fault, Dean knew that, but he also knew from experience how consuming the guilt could be.

It was strange. Growing up, he always tried so hard to follow in his dad's footsteps. It never once occurred to him that he might actually take after his mom.

When Cas and Crowley entered the archive room with their guest, Dean could hear the man protesting with more alarm than anger in his voice. "You're making a mistake! You don't have to do this!"

Dean and Mary both turned to watch impassively as the angel and demon appeared in the dungeon, dragging Mick between them.

"Dean!" he exclaimed the moment he saw the hunter. His gaze briefly dropped down to the workbench, where he beheld the assortment of torture instruments. Sure enough, they made him falter, and he glanced back up at Dean in wide-eyed disbelief. "I don't understand. What's the meaning of this?"

"Oh, like you don't know," Cas snarled viciously. He tightened his grip on the man's arm while Crowley released him—the demon didn't want to be anywhere near the devil's trap in the middle of the room. Cas ushered Mick over to a pair of manacles suspended from the ceiling and quickly shackled his wrists over his head.

Meanwhile, Dean took a menacing step toward his prisoner—and his only link to Sam. When he spoke, he kept his voice low, dark, and dangerous. "If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I hate—and I mean, I _hate_ —threats to my family." Mick furrowed his brow, apparently confused, but Dean wasn't quite ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I went out on a limb to work with you, because you claimed we could trust you, and now I've come home to find my brother missing and my mom sporting a hole in her leg, both courtesy of a man named Arthur Ketch."

Well, that definitely caught Mick's attention. His face went ghostly pale, and he opened his mouth, only to close it in consternation.

Good. They were finally getting somewhere. Enough posturing—Dean needed answers. "You've got one chance to tell me where they went, or so help me, you won't like the consequences."

Mick's gaze darted anxiously around the room, his expression torn between fear and loyalty—and also something else… Remorse? Guilt? Dean didn't know the man well enough to gauge his emotions, but still, he found them encouraging.

Ultimately, Mick groaned in resignation. "When was Sam taken?"

All eyes swept toward Mary, who stood with her arms crossed. "Just before dawn, yesterday."

"Then he's probably in England by now." Mick focused back on Dean. "Arthur Ketch is one of our elite field operatives. If you know his name, it's only because he introduced himself, which leads me to assume his orders were not to betray you, but to protect your brother at any cost."

Dean's temper flared. He charged forward and grabbed Mick by the lapels of his suit. "That son of a bitch put a bullet in my mom's leg!"

Mick winced. "But he didn't kill her. You have to understand… Mr. Ketch does not show mercy. Ever. He considers it sloppy. So if he spared your mother's life, then nothing's changed. The Men of Letters mean you no harm. We just can't take any chances with Lucifer on the board."

The man spoke with such candor that Dean realized he wouldn't need violence to make him cooperate. As much as he wanted to punch Mick in the face, it wasn't necessary. "So the end justifies the means with you bastards. Michael and Zachariah were the same. And you know what?" He raised his voice. "I didn't get along with them! Now where the hell is my brother!?"

If not for the chains and Dean's grip on his suit, Mick might have stumbled backwards. "I don't know!" he frantically alleged. "We have a number of facilities throughout the U.K. I can't possibly guess which one they went to." He quickly tacked on, "But I can ask! Ketch told you his name, so it not like we're keeping secrets. I'm sure we can arrange for you to see Sam, especially if you retrieved the stone of heaven. We want to perform that dispelling ritual as much as you do."

Dean couldn't help himself. He kneed Mick in the groin, then took a few steps back to watch as the man doubled over, gasping in pain.

Crowley chuckled. "Not very subtle, is he?"

Hanging from his chains, Mick glanced up at Dean with a look of anguish.

The hunter shook his head. "We aren't going to arrange for me 'to see' my brother. We're going to arrange for you to release him. Do I make myself clear?"

"It's not my decision," Mick protested.

Dean scoffed. "Well, then you better pray your boss takes me seriously. Or else, Lucifer will be the least of your problems."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	19. Dr Hess

**SPN**

Dr. Hess stood by the window in her office, a cup of tea in her hands and a frown on her face. Outside, students were milling about in the courtyard, enjoying a brief interlude between their lessons. So much of their day was structured, they rarely had time for leisure, but the benefits of an occasional break could not be denied, and much to their credit, they behaved themselves with proper decorum. No wild laughter; no shouting; no running amok. This was Kendricks, after all, not some raucous comprehensive hovel.

They were a fine crop, to be sure. Only a portion would complete their training, and for once, Dr. Hess could not yet distinguish the survivors from the failures—assuming they weren't all sacrificed in the fight against Lucifer. That would be unfortunate. Devastating to their ranks. They could afford to separate the wheat from the chaff, but to lose the whole harvest? It was the greatest sacrifice a teacher could offer, which made it the most worthy… and the most powerful.

Seven years ago, the pagan gods had not been strong enough—not nearly strong enough—to contend with an archangel, which made sense. They had not been adequately worshiped in centuries, leaving them all but impotent, while Lucifer was always a force to be reckoned with. At least until the Darkness returned.

Now, according to their sources, Lucifer was vulnerable. He survived his encounter with the Darkness, but not at full capacity. If the Men of Letters could restore the pagan gods to their former glory, they could challenge the angel and destroy him. If they destroyed themselves in the process, so much the better. But at the end of the day, if Dr. Hess had to choose between a petulant, rampaging devil and Týr or Freya, she would gladly choose the latter. They were by far the lesser evil.

Sacrificing their young legacies to empower the pagan gods would cost the Men of Letters an entire generation—and the loss would sting. Dr. Hess agreed it should only be their last resort, but the moment she deemed it necessary, she was prepared to act. They were all expendable… for the greater good.

As she sipped her tea, appraising the situation, the rotary phone on her desk began to ring. Back to work, then. Turning from the window, she sauntered to her chair, sat down, and calmly placed her cup on its saucer. Only then did she answer the phone. "Yes, Lydia, what is it?"

"Ma'am," her personal assistant replied in a clear, but vacant voice—she would remember none of her activities when she clocked out that night. "Dean Winchester is on the line via Mick Davies' mobile. He would like to speak with you."

So the hunter made it back from Purgatory. Dr. Hess felt a callous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Splendid. Thank you, Lydia." She waited for the call to transfer, then said, "Dean Winchester. You've reached Dr. Hess. Now what can I do for you today?"

He spoke in a surprisingly disciplined voice—angry, but not at all hysterical. Balanced. Controlled. "You took my brother. You're going to give him back. Now."

"Really?" she asked, feigning shock. "Fascinating. That wasn't part of the plan. How do you intend to make me comply?"

"If you ever want to see Mick Davies again—"

"Irrelevant," she rebuffed. "The Men of Letters are not in the habit of negotiating with hunters. Our operatives understand when they enter the field, they could very well forfeit their lives, and they would rather die than compromise their mission. I will not trade your brother for Mr. Davies, but I should warn you, Mr. Winchester, that hunters are held accountable for assaulting Men of Letters. If you should harm him, we will retaliate, and you will die."

 **SPN**

The more she spoke, the more Dean's blood boiled. He was standing in the bunker's dungeon with Mick's cell phone on speaker so Cas, Crowley, and his mom could listen, and none of them were in the mood for this bitch's contempt. It had taken over an hour to make it through the Brits' communication pipeline just to reach her, and after dealing with so many of her pompous subordinates, Dean was out of patience.

Still, he refused to let her provoke him. Obviously, hunters had no credibility with the Men of Letters, and he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an emotional outburst. When he replied, he kept his voice level. "If it's a war you want, lady, trust me, I'm game. I've dealt with angels; I've dealt with leviathans—and Dick Roman had all the resources you have. For all your talk, you're still just a human, and I ain't scared of you."

His words had no visible affect on Cas, Crowley, or Mary, but Mick's eyes widened and he anxiously shook his head. With his wrists still chained to the ceiling and a strip of duct tape covering his mouth, he couldn't interrupt, but Dean could tell how much he feared Dr. Hess. Challenging her was a risky move… but so what? She had Sam. Not to mention an attitude problem.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she scolded him. "We're at war against Lucifer, not you, and despite what you think, Sam is safer in our care."

Dean scoffed. "Sure he is."

"Tell me something, Mr. Winchester," she parried. "When your mother accused us of kidnapping your brother, did she also mention how she nearly lost him to Lucifer?" Dean's heart skipped a beat, while Mary winced. As everyone turned to stare at her, she fell back a few steps and spun around, unable to face them.

"It's true," Dr. Hess continued relentlessly. "The night before last, Lucifer compelled Sam to sleep, and your mother used African Dream Root in a foolish attempt to intercede. Naturally, Lucifer jumped at the opportunity to harass her, and Sam couldn't cope with the sight. He was on the brink of consenting when Mr. Ketch woke them both up. So you see, we didn't 'kidnap' the poor boy. We rescued him, and now we're protecting him."

Son of a… Dean shuddered, unconsciously sweeping a hand through his hair. Obviously, if Dr. Hess was telling the truth, she was putting it mildly. Lucifer didn't just 'harass' people. He tortured them. Damn it. For Sam to even think about consenting, Lucifer must have put their mom through hell. And Dean wasn't there to stop it. Ketch was.

"Look…" he growled, struggling to keep his hatred in check. "Just let him go. We have the stone. We can perform the ritual, sever their connection, and put all this behind us."

"Not quite," she objected, much to his frustration. "I'm afraid the ritual is merely the first step. Until Lucifer is contained, he will undoubtedly continue pursuing his primary vessel, which means your brother will remain a target. My people are looking for a way to resolve this issue, but in the meantime, we cannot risk letting Sam out of our custody. He must stay with us."

Dean shook his head. "You bitch…"

"I advise you to work with us, Mr. Winchester," she told him, unfazed by his language. "Bring the stone and a keepsake of your brother's, and join us at Kendricks Academy—Mr. Davies knows our location. But if you choose to reject us, that's your prerogative. And so be it. You won't get your brother back, and we'll be forced to select a more… violent strategy to combat Lucifer. Trust me when I say… you wouldn't approve."

Dean stiffened. "The hell does that mean?"

"Work with us," she said again. "And pray you never find out."

With that, she hung up her phone.

 **SPN**

Dr. Hess sat for a moment, reflecting on her conversation with the hunter. He would be on his way soon, but she wasn't concerned. With the Academy's protective warding, neither angel nor demon could force their way inside. Dean would have to use the front door, and he would have to knock. The Men of Letters would be ready to receive him, and once they performed the ritual, they could finally put the Winchesters in their place. It was about time.

Satisfied, she picked up her phone's handset and dialed her assistant's number. "Lydia, kindly arrange to have our new initiate conveyed to the special collection library. We have preparations to make."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	20. The Brink

**SPN**

It was obviously a trap. The Brits were using Sam as bait to lure in Dean—either to "gain custody" of him or to claim the stone of heaven for themselves. Possibly both. Dean still remembered how Bert Godwinson said goodbye back at Stonehenge.

" _You're a fine lad, my boy. We'd hate to lose you, now wouldn't we?"_

It was hard to imagine what kind of interest the Men of Letters would have in a hunter like Dean, especially now. They had to realize he would never help them develop an alliance in the States after kidnapping his brother, so what use could he possibly be to them? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But it was obviously a trap, which—in Dean's book—made the Men of Letters as sleazy and intolerable as Magnus. The bunker wasn't safe anymore—not when bastards like Toni Bevell and Arthur Ketch could come and go as they pleased. If Dean made it out of this alive, he would have to research ways to change the locks, but for now, he had to focus on his mission. Saving his brother. And if that meant going to war, he would need a more reliable base of operations… somewhere he hoped the Men of Letters would not expect. After all, he hadn't been near the place in over five years.

It was dusty, gloomy, and stale when Crowley zapped them inside the abandoned building. Light poured in through the clouded windows, revealing a spacious room with corrugated metal walls, wooden tables, bookshelves, and various hunting supplies. The rustic atmosphere felt oddly familiar, but oddly foreign—Dean spent much of his life in similar environments, but none of them reeked of betrayal quite like this. He would rather be anywhere else in the world, and silently cursed the Men of Letters for making the move necessary.

"Where are we?" Mick asked as the five of them took in their surroundings.

"My dad's old hunting compound," Mary said in disbelief, with a hint of nostalgia in her voice. She turned to gawk at Dean. "How did you find this place?"

"That's a long story," he replied, not without some bitterness. God, how was he supposed to tell his mom that her father was a crazy dick?

Of course, Crowley didn't share his reservations. "I can summarize, if you'd like," he teased, much to Dean's annoyance.

Before Mary could respond, he glared at the demon. "Why don't you do something useful and help Cas put up wards? I don't want anything remotely supernatural to even find this place, much less break in." With that, he grabbed Mick by the arm and roughly steered him away from the group—though Mary followed close behind.

"Where are we going?" Mick asked anxiously as they ventured deeper into the building.

"Shut up," Dean growled, but the words must not have been in his captive's vocabulary.

"Look, I… I mean no disrespect, but you do not want to challenge Dr. Hess. She's a dangerous woman, and she's been with the elders longer than you've been alive."

"Like I've never heard that before."

"Please, just listen to me!" Mick insisted as they reached the staircase. Dean felt around for the light switch, and then, they made their descent. "I realize we're still getting to know each other, and maybe we have been stepping on your toes, but I promise you, we want the same thing—to rid the world of evil! We should be working together!"

They came to a large marine door with a porthole window and an outside latch. Since Dean had his hands full, Mary slipped in front of them and struggled to get it open—damn thing had settled after years of disuse. It took her a couple tries, and Dean was about to help when, finally, the door gave way with a loud, ominous creak.

Mick's face paled. "What are we doing down here?"

"Watch your step," Dean replied, shoving him into his grandfather's panic room. It wasn't nearly as nice as Bobby's, but the steel walls were reinforced with iron, the devil's trap on the floor was still intact, and the smell of salt lingered in the air. It might not be able to repel shapeshifters—or humans, for that matter—but it should be able to contain Mick, and that was the whole point.

"This really isn't necessary," he objected as he watched Dean pull a pair of handcuffs out from his coat pocket.

"Oh, I think it is." Dean brandished the hardware so Mick could see the symbols engraved in the metal. "These are anti-magic, so don't waste your energy with your fancy spells. They won't do you any good."

"Dean, please—!"

"Keep your mouth shut," he advised, spinning Mick around to fasten his wrists behind his back. "Or I'll get more duct tape." Confident that Mick could not escape, Dean gave his shoulder a friendly, farewell pat, and left him standing there alone. His mom was waiting for him outside the room, and once he crossed the threshold, they closed the door and locked it.

"What are we going to do with him?" Mary asked softly as they began retracing their steps to the staircase. Dean shrugged. He hadn't given it much thought, and was pretty much planning everything as he went.

"Might as well let you decide," he eventually told her. They made it back to the stairs and he motioned for her to go first, but she hesitated, frowning at him.

"Why should I decide?"

Dean grimaced, bracing himself for an argument. He already knew this wouldn't go over well, but after losing Madison… Crowley was right. When people got too close to him, they died, and he would be damned if he let anything happen to his mom. "Look… This rescue mission… The odds of success aren't exactly in our favor, and there's no point risking everyone. So you should stay here with Mick."

Displeasure flashed through her eyes. "No!" Suddenly, she looked so very much like Sam.

Dean sighed and made his way up the stairs, attempting to channel his dad's resolve. "I can't focus on my job if I'm worried about protecting you."

"Protecting me!?" She stormed after him, obviously indignant. "I don't need you to protect me, Dean. I can take care of myself. And if you're serious about fighting the Men of Letters, you'll need all the help you can get!"

"Not this time," he countered, turning down the hall towards the main room. "My first priority is the ritual to kick Lucifer out of Sam's subconscious, but Rowena says we can't perform the ritual without Sam present. I have the keepsakes, so if he's not coming to us, I have to go to him, which means walking straight into a trap. And one thing's for damn sure—the Men of Letters will use whoever comes with me as leverage to keep me in line. I'm not going to let you be their hostage."

"Then we come up with a better plan!" Mary argued. "There has to be another way!" They reached the room where they first arrived, which now had Enochian sigils covering the walls. Cas and Crowley had since moved on to finish warding the rest of the building, and were nowhere to be seen, so technically, they still had some time to weigh their options. It wasn't like Dean could blame his mom for her persistence.

"All right," he offered grimly. "You have until the compound's secure to think of something, or else you stay behind."

"Dean—!"

"I mean it," he insisted. "We need to finish this ritual as soon as possible. Sam can't afford to keep waiting. I'm sorry. I know it sucks, but I have to do what's best for our family. Whatever the cost."

 **SPN**

To study at Kendricks Academy meant partaking in a rigorous curriculum designed to foster discipline, courage, loyalty, and obedience. Teachers were constantly striving to find new ways of testing their young students, to prepare them for the challenges ahead. After all, they were training to fight evil, and they could not be coddled. Evil was cruel, unforgiving, and unpredictable—and the students had to experience such realities in order to surpass them.

Therefore, when the headmistress announced her latest strategy, no one questioned it—not even when she required its immediate implementation. At Kendricks, nothing was judged too extreme.

And so, that same evening, students were filed into the Academy's dining hall, a massive room with breathtaking Gothic windows and a lofty cathedral ceiling that featured decorative trusses. Presently, ropes with nooses were dangling from the wooden beams, and all the tables were rearranged to line up directly beneath them—as if the dining hall had been converted into a death chamber.

"Keep moving!" a teacher snapped when the younger children faltered. "There will be no fussing. Tonight, you shall demonstrate your endurance in the face of fear and uncertainty. I expect each of you to conduct yourselves with fortitude and poise."

"It's okay," several of the more experienced students whispered in a show of nonchalance. "It's only a mind game. A bluff." Whether they actually believed their words, who could tell?

As efficiently as possible, the teachers helped the students climb up onto the tables. They tied their wrists behind their backs, covered their eyes with bandanas, and slipped a noose around each of their necks, making sure the rope was snug, but not painful.

"You will remain in this position for the duration of the night," one teacher callously declared. "Do not be the wretch who succumbs to sleep, for we shall not attempt to rouse you."

"You may recite the Code if you wish to speak," another allowed. "But there will be no idle chatter."

"Has anyone seen Grace Sawyer?" a third teacher called out, scanning the makeshift gallows for a certain twelve-year-old. "She's not with her class." No one answered, much to the teacher's irritation. "Dr. Hess will not tolerate truants. We need to find her. Now."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_

 _ **(Enjoy the season 12 finale! I have to wait for Saturday to watch it, so please, no spoilers! Thank you!)**_


	21. Surrender

**SPN**

It was quiet in the old Campbell compound. Dean had wandered off to patrol the facility, making sure nothing had moved in over the past few years, while Castiel and Crowley finished their work. Mary sat by herself on a bench in the main room, staring glumly at the Enochian sigils on the walls. She was still struggling to wrap her mind around it. Angels were real. The Men of Letters were real. And she was running out of time to formulate a rescue plan.

She didn't know what she was up against. She didn't know what the Brits were capable of. And she didn't know the first thing about Kendricks Academy, what it looked like or if it had any weak spots. How were they supposed to storm the place when they had no information to work with?

They were screwed…

But Dean was right. They had to unravel Lucifer's claim on Sam as soon as possible, or he might break, and the whole world would suffer for it. God… Why must the weight of the whole damn world rest on her family? Because she made a deal with Azazel? But she wasn't the first human—or the last—to bargain with demons, so why her? Why her boys? They didn't ask for this; they didn't deserve this. It was her fault, not theirs.

Oh, God… Was it any wonder she tried to leave? How was she supposed to face them? To look them in the eyes? Somehow, she had to atone. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she couldn't make up for her mistakes.

But first thing's first. She had to help Sam.

All too soon, her thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps and the demon's grating voice. "Did you honestly expect anything else? The Men of Letters are responsible for dismantling the entire Grand Coven. I don't care how powerful she's become with that bloody spell book, she'd be mad to join us on this fool's errand."

Castiel entered the room with a disappointed frown on his face. Crowley was trailing after him with Dean in the rear. This was it. They were ready to go, and Mary had nothing to offer them but her hunting skills. She jumped to her feet, anxious to fight.

When Castiel saw her, he briefly paused—unsure of himself—but only for a moment. Then, he made his way straight to her side. "I called Rowena, and she's not coming. She's willing to combat Lucifer—if we get him cornered—but she won't go anywhere near the Men of Letters without a coven to supplement her magic. She's just one witch, and they're an army."

Mary felt herself deflating. "Then nothing's changed."

"Unfortunately."

"Mom…" Dean began, facing her but unable to meet her gaze. She stiffened, recognizing the presages of a goodbye.

Oh, hell no. "You are not going without me. I'm your mother. I'm Sam's mother! I know I messed up with the African Dream Root, but I have a right to be there!"

He swallowed painfully and shook his head. "I'm sorry." His green eyes darted toward Castiel, and Mary noticed the unspoken command that passed between them.

What—?

She turned, frantically squaring off against the angel, but he was too close, and too fast. His fingers brushed up against her forehead, and everything went dark.

 **SPN**

As it turned out—according to Mick—Kendricks was a privately-owned Academy with a campus fit for a major university, surrounded by an elegant perimeter wall. Since Crowley could not trespass onto the property, they landed in a copse of trees down the road from the main entrance. It was after nightfall—England was six hours ahead of Kansas—but the moon was bright, and the perimeter wall featured a series of mounted lanterns.

" _I know I messed up with the African Dream Root, but I have a right to be there!"_

His mom's argument replayed in his mind, making him grimace. She didn't think he was punishing her for Sam's abduction, did she? No, that had nothing to do with it. How could she even consider something like that? What was it with their family and poor communication?

"Dean…" Crowley spoke in a slow, steady voice, with a torn expression on his face. "The success of this mission is important to me. I have a strained relationship with Lucifer, and if he snags your brother—his true vessel—well, I'd rather not spend my dying breath staring up at Moose. But if I walk into that school with you, if I surrender myself to the Men of Letters, chances are they'll kill me."

Dean sighed, closing his eyes in resignation. He had seen this coming, but that didn't make it a welcome development. As much as he distrusted the demon, there were certain situations where it paid to have him around… But he had a point. Assuming he could make it through the school's protective warding, he would still be powerless, unable to defend himself, and as Dean told his mom, there was no point risking everyone.

"You don't have to explain, Crowley," he assured the demon. "I get it. Besides, you followed me into Purgatory… helped me find the emerald… You don't have to prove anything." It occurred to him why Crowley was so apologetic. By taking a knee, he was following Rowena's example—which he had to hate—but Dean knew better than to say so. Instead, he went with, "Thank you."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Just don't make a botch of it." And with that, he disappeared. He wouldn't go far—not with everything at stake—but none of them had time for awkward goodbyes.

Dean glanced over at Castiel. "And then there were two."

The angel looked back at him, obviously troubled. "Dean, I… I did this. Lucifer walks the earth because I let him out, and now… everything that's happened… with Sam, and Madison… It's my fault."

Dean tensed, the familiar weight of guilt and regret settling on his shoulders. "Come on, man…" He began striding up the road toward the Academy, with Cas falling into step next to him. "You shouldn't be too hard on yourself. I don't even know who tipped over the first domino that led to this. We're all at fault. Besides, if these British asshats offered to help a year ago, this could've all been different. We could've stayed the hell away from Lucifer."

"But then Amara might not have reconciled with God," Cas observed.

Amara… Dean wondered if he would ever see her again.

"Do you… Are you still drawn to her?" the angel asked.

How the hell was he supposed to answer that? Dean's chest tightened, and he focused on walking. Up ahead, the Kendricks driveway converged with the main road, and he glimpsed a cluster of figures standing near the open gate—waiting.

"I think about her all the time," he quietly confessed. "She brought back my mom… She wanted to do something for me that no one…" He trailed off, at a loss for words. "Look, can we do this later? Assuming we survive?"

Cas nodded. "Yes. Of course."

As they reached the gate, Dean counted seven men, athletic and sharply dressed in tailored suits. They carried themselves with confidence and experience, not at all the nerdy librarians that Dean expected. One of them, a dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a smug face, sauntered forward with his hands tucked casually in his pockets.

"Dean Winchester, I presume? And Castiel?" He smiled pompously. "We've been expecting you. I'm Arthur Ketch."

Fury surged through Dean, and he clenched his fists, only to stop short when Ketch's thugs brandished their SIG Sauer pistols. They weren't bluffing. After all, Ketch had been willing to shoot Mary.

Still, Dean had to voice his anger somehow. "I'm going to kill you," he warned the bastard. "Slowly."

Ketch shrugged. "Perhaps. But you never know. When everything's said and done, we might very well be friends, you and I."

"Don't count on it."

Ketch wasn't fazed. If anything, he was amused. "Right. Then what are we waiting for? Did you bring the emerald?"

Cas fished the broken fragment from the pocket of his trench coat and held it up for all to see. "It's right here."

Ketch and his men stared at it in obvious desire, practically salivating. The son of a bitch stretched out his hand. "Give it to me now."

Cas immediately slipped the emerald back in his pocket. "That would be unwise. The stone of heaven was formed with divine holiness, and later infused with the hatred and arrogance of the devil. Should a human touch it, he would surely be incinerated." Not strictly true—the statement applied to demons, not humans—but what the Men of Letters didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

A hint of annoyance crossed Ketch's face, much to Dean's satisfaction. "Ever see _Raiders_?" he taunted. "Similar concept."

"To perform the dispelling ritual," Cas continued. "You will have to lower your defenses to grant me access to the Academy, or better yet, release Sam."

Ketch dropped his arm, glancing back and forth between the two of them suspiciously. "No… I don't think that will be necessary." He peered over his shoulder. "Percy, do you have the pendant?"

"Yes, sir." Keeping his pistol fixed on Dean, a middle-aged man with slicked-back copper hair, a goatee, and dull gray eyes reached for the inside flap of his jacket. A moment later, he produced a golden necklace with a palm-sized medallion, which he tossed to Castiel. Dean couldn't help but glance over at it, immediately observing the Enochian sigils etched on its surface.

"Whoever—whatever—bears that pendant may enter the Academy with the protective warding still intact," Ketch explained. "Go ahead. Put it on. No sense wasting time."

Cas frowned, squinting thoughtfully at the sigils, but they must have been on the level, for he proceeded to draw the golden chain around his head.

They were one step closer to captivity, and it came as no surprise when Ketch said, "Search them." Percy and a blond man with rimless glasses holstered their pistols, advancing on Dean and Cas while the four remaining thugs covered them. Dean grimaced, catching his breath. It went against his nature to let anyone—much less a snobby jackass—pat him down and confiscate his weapons, but how else would he reach Sam? It took all his discipline, but he managed to put up with the treatment by glaring at Ketch and imagining all the different ways he could make the son of a bitch suffer.

Ketch smirked. "I hope you understand, we're on a school campus. It's against policy to admit armed visitors. We have children here, and their safety comes first."

"What kind of moron would trust you bastards with their kids?"

"They're legacies," Ketch replied. "They belong to us. As do you and your brother."

Dean's temper flared. "You might want to rethink that."

When Percy and his friend—Dean would call him Specks—finished disarming them, Ketch motioned for them to enter through the open gate. A ten-passenger club car was parked in the driveway on the other side, which looked ridiculous, but made sense. They were able to climb on and sit down in a matter of seconds. As the gate closed behind them, shutting with an air of finality, the club car began its journey toward the school.

They rode in silence, giving Dean a chance to consider Ketch's claim.

" _They're legacies. They belong to us. As do you and your brother."_

He found himself picturing his grandfather—his other grandfather—Henry Winchester.

" _I'm sorry,"_ the time traveler had apologized. _"I wish I had been there for him."_

" _Yeah,"_ Dean had grumbled. _"It's a little late for that now, don't you think?"_

" _It's the price we pay for upholding great responsibility. We know that."_

" _Your responsibility was to your family! Not some glorified book club."_

" _I was a legacy. I had no choice."_

" _Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."_

Son of a bitch… It never occurred to Dean how possessive and controlling the Men of Letters would prove themselves to be. But was the American chapter as shady as the British chapter? Ketch and his thugs were obviously trained soldiers, while Henry had puked after their escape from Abaddon.

" _It's just all the adventures I enjoy are usually of the literary nature."_

Hard to believe a man like Henry could kidnap or torture anyone. He didn't have the stomach for it—literally. But then again, he was from a completely different generation. The 1958 massacre had been nearly sixty years ago. For hunters, that was a lifetime, and so much could change in the course of a lifetime. But one thing was for damn sure. Dean and his brother didn't "belong" to anyone. Not Michael or Lucifer, and certainly not the friggin' Men of Letters.

The driveway wound up a hill through a wooded park, then emerged from the trees onto the campus proper. It was too dark to see much of the buildings, but Dean could tell they were old and traditional. Eventually, the club car braked at the foot of a stone staircase, which led up to the main facility—judging by the well-lit monument sign over to the right. 'Kendricks Academy.' They were here, which meant Sam was close.

Dean felt a chill run down his spine. These bastards took his brother against his will. This Academy wasn't just a school, it was a prison, and after they performed the ritual… then what? Obviously, they wouldn't be allowed to leave.

"Your brother is in the special collection library," Ketch explained as they stepped off the club car and made their way up the stairs to the front door. "It's restricted from the students, since it contains so much of the world's occult lore, so we should have some privacy."

"Well, that's reassuring," Dean grumbled, glancing over at Cas, who looked back at him in concern.

They entered a bright, empty lobby that resembled a stark town hall more than a prestigious Academy. Everything was cold, sterile, and definitely not kid-friendly. Dean had seen the inside of many schools throughout his childhood, and he could already tell this place sucked. "Where is everyone?"

"The dining hall, I believe," Ketch replied. "This way."

They ventured through the building at a brisk pace, and Dean made every effort to memorize their route. In the east wing, they entered the general library—a gigantic room with a marble floor and a domed ceiling that was decorated with colorful frescoes of supernatural entities. On every side, six tiers of balconies contained more bookshelves than Dean could fathom, along with priceless artifacts in glass display cases. It almost felt like a museum, and if Dean wasn't so pissed off, he might have been impressed.

They proceeded to the far side of the room, where a door stood in the corner with a simple 'Restricted' sign. Ketch produced a key, unlocked the door, and revealed a cast-iron staircase that spiraled down into a… a basement? A dungeon? Dean wasn't entirely sure what to expect. The level below had very dim lighting, and as they began their descent, the Academy seemed to transition from a normal building into a cavernous, underground structure carved directly from the earth. Was that even possible?

They arrived on a stone balcony with a Gothic balustrade. As Dean peered over the side, he quickly realized he was in a chamber that mirrored the library above—only now he wasn't on the ground floor, but on the uppermost tier, with five levels between him and the bottom.

And what he saw at the bottom made his heart stop.

A small crowd of men and women were waiting in a semi-circle around a ten-foot-tall obsidian obelisk. They were dressed in black ceremonial robes, holding red taper candles, gazing mercilessly at a young man with brown, disheveled hair. His wrists had been cuffed in front of him, yanked over his head, and fastened to a hook on the obelisk, where he was forced to stand like a sacrificial victim. His captors had changed his clothes, making him wear a dress shirt with a sweater vest and trousers, but leaving him barefoot. His eyes were covered with a blindfold, and his mouth was stuffed with a knotted cleave gag.

Son of a bitch…

Fury rippled through Dean's body, and he found himself leaning against the balustrade for support.

 _Sammy…_

"SAM!"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	22. Ambush

**SPN**

Sam flinched when he heard his name resounding through the cavernous chamber. He didn't recognize the voice, but it carried too much urgency for Lucifer or the Men of Letters. Who was it, then? And what did he want? The last thing Sam needed was a third party making claims on him. Why couldn't they just leave him the hell alone?

Struggling to breathe, Sam bit down on his gag. It was pulled tightly around his head so the large knot was obstructing his tongue, forcing his mouth to remain ajar. Godwinson said it would keep him from interfering with the ritual. Lucifer still had his claws buried deep in Sam's subconscious, and they couldn't be sure how much control that gave him, which made every encumbrance necessary. A safety precaution. A pain in the ass.

His arms were pulled so far over his head, he could feel the strain in his shoulders. His feet barely touched the ground—he was literally standing on his tiptoes. Considering his height, he tried not to think about any previous victims who might have been suspended in this place. He couldn't see his surroundings, but he could sense the dark energy in the room, which made it easy to imagine the crimes committed here.

He had to find a way out. Godwinson assured him the ritual would help protect him from Lucifer, and the Men of Letters would treat him differently once he was safe, but Sam didn't care. He didn't trust them, and every instinct was urging him to escape.

Despite his blindfold, Sam glanced up in the direction of his restraints. He pulled on the hook, twisting his wrists, but the handcuffs were unyielding. The more he squirmed, the more they chafed his skin, and he groaned in frustration. His head fell back against the stone surface behind him; his gag was smothering, and his chest was heaving, in and out. His lungs were on fire, and he could barely breathe—adding to the agony of his lingering injuries. He didn't want to admit it, but he was helpless… Truly helpless.

" _Not much longer now, Sammy,"_ Lucifer whispered in his mind. _"I'll make sure these clowns regret taking you from me… and then we can start again… fresh."_

 **SPN**

Castiel watched anxiously as Dean whirled around, searching for a way to reach his little brother. On the opposite end of the balcony, another cast-iron staircase spiraled down to the next tier below, and Castiel feared they would have to make their descent one level at a time. If that wasn't bad enough, Ketch and Percy were both standing in the hunter's way, guns drawn and ready.

Dean scowled. "You sadistic freaks! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Ketch retorted contemptuously. "The lad's fine. Perhaps a bit uncomfortable, but Lucifer's manipulating him. Do you honestly believe he'll cooperate for the ritual?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "He'll cooperate. Lucifer may be invading his privacy, but Sam has not been possessed. He's still in control, and he's stronger than you realize."

Ketch wasn't convinced. "Better safe than sorry. Or don't you remember how suggestible Sam was that year with the hallucinations?" Castiel stiffened, grimacing at the reminder. Ketch smirked. "Wait, that's right. You weren't there."

"While you bastards were watching from a distance like a bunch of sick perverts!" Dean interrupted, raising his voice. "Now let him go! Or I swear to God, I will burn down this entire school and tear every last one of you to pieces!"

Ketch cocked his gun, aiming for Dean's leg. "I'd like to see you try." For a fleeting moment, Castiel thought Dean might ignore the weapon and launch himself at Ketch—he was so livid—but somehow, he refrained. Such aggression would only get him shot, and since there was no guarantee that Castiel could heal on Kendricks' property, they couldn't afford unnecessary risks. If they hoped to rescue Sam, they had to bide their time and wait for the right opportunity. Fortunately, Dean understood that.

"Good boy," Ketch said when the hunter backed down. "One more tantrum, and we'll restrain you as well. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, don't worry," Dean spat derisively. "I think we're on the same page." They glared at each other, sizing each other up, no doubt eager to shed blood. They were both on such short fuses, an explosion would be inevitable. But not yet.

Ketch motioned for Percy and two of his other lackeys to lead the way, and they continued their descent through the underground chamber. Each balcony had a separate staircase spiraling to the tier below, but they were steep and narrow, forcing the group to walk single-file. Progress was slow, which allowed Castiel some time to observe his surroundings.

Like in the general library above, the balconies in the so-called special collection library contained an assortment of books and artifacts—only these ones were emanating with dangerous energy. Where did they all come from? Rowena's Grand Coven, perhaps? It never failed to astonish the angel how resourceful the human race could be, but he questioned the wisdom of gathering so much firepower in one location.

And the worst was yet to come.

As they alighted from the final staircase onto the lowest floor, Castiel happened to glance under the covered walkway beneath the balcony, where he couldn't fail to miss a row of glass tanks standing vertically with iron frames. Each tank contained some kind of fluid, and a human-like figure in suspended animation. Some were male, some female. All outwardly young, in their twenties or thirties, with fair skin and hair ranging from gold to ginger. Beautiful. Dormant. Divine.

Castiel's chest tightened. They were pagan gods.

 **SPN**

Protect Sam. That was Dean's job—it had always been Dean's job—and when something threatened Sam that Dean couldn't fight, it pissed him off. And it scared him. And sometimes, it spurred him to exceed expectations. These bastards had the nerve to chain his little brother to a friggin' obelisk! They were screwed. They just didn't know it yet.

"Sammy!" As soon as he stepped off the last staircase, Dean hastened toward the crowd of men and women blocking him from Sam. They all turned to watch him come, haughty and detestable. Dean recognized Bert Godwinson among them, but his attention was quickly drawn to a stout woman with tidy red hair and not enough make-up to mask her age.

"Hello, Mr. Winchester."

That voice… She was the bitch from the phone. Dr. Hess. Dean stopped short and glared at her, clenching his jaw, his fists, and every muscle in his body.

She spoke expeditiously. "I want you to know I appreciate the delicacy of the situation we find ourselves in, but I won't apologize for my decisions. I assure you, they have been in everyone's best interest, and one day, I trust you'll realize that."

"Save the speeches, lady," Dean retorted. "I'm not buying what you're selling."

She pursed her lips, giving him a brief once-over before meeting his gaze with steel in her eyes. "Do you have the keepsakes?"

"I want to check on Sam."

Needless to say, she was every bit as disagreeable in person as she had been on the phone. "Not just yet, Mr. Winchester. Time is short. Once we put the ritual behind us, then you may tend to your brother."

As much as Dean wanted to object, he was painfully aware of Ketch and his goons. They were still holding him at gunpoint, and he could sense Ketch daring him to step out of line. A bullet to the leg wouldn't help Sam, and the truth was, the sooner they finished the damn ritual, the better.

"Cas?" Dean peered over his shoulder, searching for the angel who had lagged behind. With so much of his focus on Sam, he hadn't noticed when Cas wandered off, apparently to examine some tanks under the balcony—and what he saw inside those tanks made his jaw drop. "What the hell!?"

"They're not human," Dr. Hess assured him. "Merely gods. Týr, Freya, and what remains of their family."

Dean gawked at her. "You store gods in a school library?"

"They're quite secure," she said indifferently. "Would you rather we leave them to their own devices, roaming the world as they please, terrorizing the general population?"

"Why don't you just kill them?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Do you really want to have this discussion now?"

His gaze drifted past her and settled on his brother. From this proximity, Sam's distress was even more apparent. He had been pulled onto his tiptoes, and while he was shivering, he also had a thin layer of sweat on his brow. He looked feverish—and alarmed. With his eyes covered and his mouth gagged, it was hard to read his expression, but he was fidgeting, wrestling with his handcuffs, and shaking his head. When a pained, frantic moan tore out of him, Dean knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that something was seriously wrong.

"Why shouldn't we discuss it now?"

A strange new voice echoed around the library. Dean didn't recognize it, and judging by the way his captors all froze, they didn't either. Sam, however, immediately renewed his squirming, desperate to escape the obelisk, but too hampered to succeed.

Son of a…

Cas came storming out from under the balcony with a strained look on his face, and suddenly, the pagan gods were the least of their worries. Dean quickly followed the angel's gaze, and on the other side of the room, he caught sight of a thin, bare-chested figure in black boots and leather pants. His pale skin was covered in pus, scabs, blisters, and boils. His dark, shaggy hair was damp and tangled. His eyes were cold and piercing. There was something oddly familiar about him, but Dean couldn't place him—at least not the vessel. As for the occupant inside the vessel… that much was obvious. "Lucifer."

Shock rippled through the Men of Letters. How could Lucifer get past the warding!? It made no sense!

A depraved smile crossed his grisly face. "I saw the kiddos in the dining hall upstairs," he told Dr. Hess in a soft, sinister voice. "All trussed up and ready to swing. Is that your plan? Sacrifice them so your pet gods get a power boost? Pathetic."

For once, Dr. Hess had the decency to look afraid. "How did…?"

"Gracie Sawyer," he smugly replied. "She defaced the wards for me. Took her all day, but I have to hand it to her. She pulled it off. You know, you really should think twice about having them kill their best friends at such a tender age. Makes them so easy to manipulate."

Dean thought he might actually throw up. His stomach churned as he processed the devil's words. What kind of nightmare school was this place?

"Don't bother trying to hang them with your long-distance magic," Lucifer advised the woman. "I promised Gracie I would save them, and so I have. Snapped their necks quickly and cleanly to save their precious souls from your corruption."

The shock in the room escalated to horror. Dean cursed under his breath while Dr. Hess closed her eyes in blatant disappointment.

"So you see," Lucifer taunted, wagging his finger. "Those pagans over there can't help you. They're not strong enough, and you missed your opportunity to upgrade them."

"How do we know you're not bluffing?" Cas interrupted, stepping forward with all the defiance he could muster. Dean caught his breath as Lucifer turned to regard the younger angel. "Your vessel is broken, and you haven't been yourself since Amara ripped you out of me. You're crippled, Lucifer. Perhaps those pagans don't need an 'upgrade' to kill you."

The bastard smirked. "Oh, ye of little faith. I should be thanking you, Cas. You have something of mine—and don't play dumb. I felt it the moment you brought it back to Earth."

The emerald… Cas stiffened, caught off guard by the accusation.

"When I first heard it calling to me," Lucifer crooned, "my spirit soared. The stone of heaven… even just a piece of it… can replenish my strength." To prove his point, his eyes turned red as angelic humming filled the chamber. His body lit up with celestial radiance, casting shadows behind him of two majestic wings. His skin began to heal, and as they all watched, helpless to stop it, he fully repaired himself.

Moments later, as the spectacle expired, he stood before them triumphantly. "Now then…" He surveyed the Men of Letters with a malicious smile. "Who wants to perish first?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	23. Eruption

**SPN**

Everything seemed to happen at once. Ketch and his thugs took the initiative, turning their guns on Lucifer and shooting him in the chest. While the barrage didn't hurt the devil, it knocked him back several steps, giving the robed Men of Letters time to coordinate their own assault. With red taper candles still in hand, they began reciting some strange Latin chant.

" _Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco…_ "

Lucifer grimaced, muscles tensing as he weathered a flood of unseen magic.

From the corner of his eye, Dean observed Dr. Hess breaking away from her colleagues. She hastened to the side of the room, where she skirted around the action to approach the glass tanks beneath the balcony.

" _Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco…_ "

With everyone distracted, Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was out of energy, hanging listlessly from his restraints, leaning against the obelisk, panting heavily through his gag. Dean had to get him down. Now.

" _Aborro te ut… Angelum omnium obsequendum…_ "

As quickly as possible, Dean scrambled to his brother's side. "Sammy?" The kid flinched, shying back as far as he could. "It's okay!" Dean assured him. "It's just me!" He pulled the blindfold off Sam's face and immediately caught sight of a small round object jammed in the side of his forehead. The hell was that!?

" _Domine expuet!_ "

Sam's frightened gaze drifted over Dean's shoulder, and he stiffened, eyes widening in panic. He tried to shout a warning, but the gag muffled his words. Dean whipped his head around, and through the crowd, he glimpsed Castiel. The angel had toppled to his knees, and white light was glowing from his eyes and mouth. Dean's heart stopped. Cas!?

" _Domine expuet!_ "

Lucifer's eyes were also shining, but he was still on his feet. A moment later, he mustered the strength to retaliate, and he swept his arm out to the side. The spell-casters were all thrown to the ground, candles scattering everywhere, extinguishing the flames. Dean couldn't help but sigh in relief as Cas recovered, but that only meant Lucifer maintained the advantage. They would need a miracle to survive this.

"An exorcism for angels?" the devil asked contemptuously. "Cute. But not good enough." He focused his attention on the nearest Brit. "You. Come here." He beckoned with his hand, telekinetically reeling the man in, catching him by the neck. "I was having such a nice conversation with my vessel, when you insolent maggots snatched him away from me. Now that's just rude. So trust me when I say, I'm going to enjoy this." He began squeezing, digging his fingers into the man's throat, drawing blood.

Dean clenched his jaw and glanced up at Sam's wrists. He had to hurry—it wouldn't take Lucifer long to slaughter the Men of Letters, and they couldn't afford to waste a single moment. Unfortunately, his little brother was taller than he was, and the handcuffs were hooked high above his head. He couldn't reach them without some kind of boost.

There had to be a way. If the Men of Letters were able to chain him up in the first place, Dean had to be able to get him down.

A quick inspection of the obelisk revealed a knee-high pedestal base with a decorative lip. Perfect! Dean used the lip as a foothold and hoisted himself up. As it turned out, the hook was just a simple carabiner, easy to snap open. Dean slid the handcuffs out, and Sam's body dropped. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed. Damn it!

Dean jumped down and knelt beside his brother. "You okay?" Sam watched like a deer in the headlights as Dean tugged the gag out of his mouth. "Sammy?"

The kid shook his head, scared and confused. "Who… who are you?"

 **SPN**

The attempted exorcism took more out of Castiel than he cared to admit. For a long moment, he sat trembling on his knees, completely out of energy. Meanwhile, Lucifer took his time, toying with the Brits before killing them, one by one. The Men of Letters were undeniably cruel and hypocritical, but they were still human, and the angel couldn't bear to watch them die—not like this.

Catching his breath, he clambered to his feet and rushed toward his older brother. He didn't have his angel blade—it was confiscated by Ketch's lackey—but he wouldn't let that stop him from joining the fight. He had to help.

Lucifer was in the process of tearing a man's arm out of its socket. The poor bastard was screaming, writhing like a tortured insect. Castiel lunged at them, but Lucifer sensed the attack and reflexively held up his hand. Castiel jerked to a stop, as if hitting a wall, and suddenly lost control of his body. He was paralyzed, caught in the devil's grip.

Lucifer peered over at him, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "Castiel… Learn to wait your turn."

Out of nowhere, a surge of divine power radiated through the library. It reeked of primitive, pagan malice, full of hatred, bitterness, and blood lust. The two angels glanced at the tanks beneath the balcony, where Dr. Hess stood with Týr, Freya, and a handful of other gods. They were awake, and they were staring at Lucifer in obvious loathing. After all, he killed Baldur, and pagans were nothing if not vindictive.

Lucifer sighed, dropping his victim on the floor. "You must be joking." He squared off against the pagans, releasing Castiel. "You don't have what it takes. I thought I made that clear."

Freya scowled. "You miserable, arrogant wretch." She drew a sword from the scabbard hanging at her waist. Incredibly, it was a Grigori angel sword. "You're not as strong as you think you are."

 **SPN**

Sam didn't recognize the man leaning over him. He vaguely remembered hearing the man's name, but it strangely slipped his mind, which didn't make any sense. The hunter was trained to pay attention to everything, especially in dangerous situations, and he wasn't careless enough to overlook such an important detail. So why couldn't he remember?

For his part, the man was staring back at him in disbelief, his green eyes wide with shock. It wasn't fabricated; Sam's question caught him off guard and genuinely upset him—which Sam couldn't comprehend. He had never seen the man before, so why the reaction? Who the hell was he?

No answer came. Instead, Ketch appeared towering over the man, calm, focused, and determined. Sam opened his mouth to shout a warning, which wasn't necessary. The man was already twisting around, anticipating the attack—but he wasn't fast enough. Ketch pistol-whipped the side of his face, knocking his head against the obelisk. He groaned, crumbling to the ground, conscious but dazed.

"No!" Sam exclaimed, looking up at Ketch in horror. "What the hell!?" Why would he attack a potential ally when they were up against Lucifer?

"We have to go," Ketch replied without remorse. "We have to get you as far from here as possible, and Dean will only slow us down."

Sam caught his breath. After hanging on the obelisk for so long, his muscles were fatigued. Between the burn on his foot and the bullet wound in his leg, he was no match for Ketch, especially with his wrists cuffed together. But he would be damned if he cooperated with the Men of Letters, so he twisted to his knees, struggling to get up.

Ketch kicked him in the back, knocking the wind out of him. Sam hit the ground face first and nearly blacked out, which prompted the Somnus Inhibitor to send a brief shock rippling through his body. It wasn't as painful as it was startling, but Sam still gasped, tears in his eyes.

Ketch's foot nudged him over, rolling him onto his back. "Don't fight me, Sam. We're trying to protect you from Lucifer. If he claims you, the whole world is forfeit, so do us all a favor and play nice." The bastard reached down and grabbed the handcuffs, yanking Sam's arms over his head and dragging him across the ground, away from the obelisk.

"No…" Sam squirmed, straining to pull his wrists free, but Ketch wouldn't let go. They crossed the distance over to a white-haired man in black ceremonial robes. He was sitting by himself, using one hand to keep his glasses on his wrinkled face, and the other to sketch an arcane symbol on the ground with a piece of chalk. He spared Sam an anxious glance.

"Don't worry, lad. We're getting out of here."

Godwinson. Sam recognized his breathy voice and cringed. "If you think Lucifer will let us go, you're delusional."

"Lucifer's preoccupied. The pagans are well-armed, and should they fall, the elders are prepared to stand their ground. The battle might be lost, but I can assure you, Sam, there is still time for us to open a portal and escape."

 **SPN**

Out of all the pagans who emerged from the glass tanks, only Týr remained. After killing Freya, Lucifer retrieved the Grigori sword and made quick work of the others. But Týr also carried a Grigori sword, and unlike Freya, he knew how to wield it properly. He was, after all, a war god. So now, he and Lucifer were engaged in a fearsome, but pointless, battle.

Like the remaining Men of Letters, Castiel stood back, out of the way, watching in astonishment. He didn't think a Grigori sword could kill an archangel. It might be able to hurt him, but only if Týr managed to strike a blow, and so far, they were at a stalemate. At least, that's how it appeared. But the longer they danced around each other, blades clashing swiftly and savagely, the more obvious it was—at least to Castiel—that Lucifer was in a league of his own. He could have easily butchered Týr by now, if he wasn't having so much fun.

Fortunately, his new-found health was turning into a distraction. The more time he spent indulging himself with Týr, the more time Castiel had to think of a solution. But what solution? What options did they realistically have?

Gritting his teeth, Castiel fished his phone from his pocket. This went against his nature, but to hell with it. They were in the fight of their lives, and something had to be done.

 **SPN**

Dean's head was spinning, and it took a few seconds not only to orient himself, but also to manage the pain. Ketch was a damn coward, attacking from behind, and now he was on the run with Sam in tow—again! Dean could no longer contain his fury. Between the Men of Letters, friggin' Lucifer, and his brother's random case of amnesia, the pressure was too much, and he had to vent immediately or he would suffocate.

Clambering to his feet, Dean started after his assailant. Ketch was standing some distance away, with his foot planted on Sam's stomach, pinning him to the ground. Next to them sat Godwinson, who was chanting under his breath while holding a knife to his palm. Clearly, they were up to something, but whatever they had planned, Dean would stop it. He was so sick of these bastards.

Breaking into a run, he launched himself at Ketch. The man looked up in surprise, but didn't have time to move. Their bodies crashed and tumbled to the ground. Sam rolled out of the way, and Dean yelled at him to _"Run!"_ —which gave Ketch an opportunity to hook him in the face. Dean mostly absorbed the blow, and when Ketch tried to knee him in the gut, he blocked the attack and countered by pounding him hard in the sternum. He followed through with a second jab to the solar plexus, which knocked the wind out of the bastard. Skilled soldier or not, he was still just a human, while Dean was trained to fight monsters. Before Ketch could recover, he proceeded to punch him in the face. And just for good measure, he punched him again, breaking his nose. A third punch knocked him out, but why stop there?

Dean kept punching him, over and over and over again. He couldn't help himself—after days of pent-up frustration, he could finally blow some steam, and he wasn't about to stop.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	24. Last Stand

**SPN**

Despite the stranger's command to run, Sam remained rooted in place. He didn't even know where he was, much less where to go, and danger was lurking in every direction. Not too far away, Lucifer—in the rock star Vince Vincente's body—was dueling someone with a sword, and a crowd of Brits were standing between Sam and Castiel. He would never make it past all of them. Running would only be a waste of energy. But at the same time, he couldn't just sit there!

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a pained gasp. Godwinson had finally managed to slice open his palm, and as he splattered his blood on the symbol beneath him, a strange energy filled the room. It caught everyone's attention, even Lucifer and his opponent's, and they all stopped to watch as a shining white light cracked through the air. Sam's eyes widened. A portal!

"We have to go!" Godwinson scurried towards him and frantically grabbed the front of his sweater vest. "Please, Sam! You don't really want to stay here! Lucifer will torture you! Now come with me!"

No… Sam shook his head. "Get away from me!" He swung his arms, pushing the older man back.

Meanwhile, Lucifer curled his lip. "You fools never learn."

His opponent took the opportunity to strike, but Lucifer stopped him in his tracks simply by holding up his free hand. Unable to move, his opponent could do nothing but glare in defiant hatred as Lucifer brandished his sword and stabbed him through the heart.

Immediately, the remaining Men of Letters sprang into action. They stretched out their arms and began chanting in unison. _"Foro dega la moray… Mah ho tah!"_

A wall of fire flared to life, extending from one end of the chamber all the way to the other, effectively cutting the angels off from the humans and the portal.

"Please, Sam!" Godwinson tried again, more desperate than ever. "The elders can't maintain that barrier for long! We don't have a choice! The portal is the only way!"

Sam hesitated, recognizing the man's rationale, but reluctant to concede. These bastards were kidnappers and murderers. Apparently, they compelled their own students to kill each other. What made them better than Lucifer? What made them more trustworthy? Sam could think of nothing.

Suddenly, a pair of strong, callused hands caught Sam by the arm, gently but firmly. Surprised, Sam recoiled, instinctively bucking to dislodge his unknown assailant, who turned out to be the green-eyed stranger.

"Whoa, Sam!" Realizing his mistake, the stranger backed off and exposed his hands, which held nothing but a small key ring. "It's okay! It's just me! I… I'm Dean! I'm your brother!"

Brother? The word triggered a rush of emotion. Doubt, fear, sorrow, confusion… He had a brother—a younger brother—Adam—in the cage… The cage… Sam's chest tightened… blood pulsed in his ears, and he thought he might scream. His memories of the cage were overwhelming. He could hear the devil's laughter… he could feel the meat hooks piercing his flesh… It was happening all over again! Or maybe it never stopped.

"Sam? Sammy!"

An anxious voice was calling out to him, drawing him back to the present. Sam blinked, breathing heavily as he focused on a strange man with green eyes. He frowned.

"Who are you?"

"Listen to my accent," the stranger replied, struggling to balance the urgency of their situation with a reassuring tone. "I'm American. Look at my clothes. I'm a hunter. I'm here to help you."

Sam hesitated, processing the stranger's words. American. Not British. Not with the Men of Letters. Here to help.

The stranger gave him an encouraging nod and flashed a small key ring. "I pulled this off Ketch. Here…" He beckoned for Sam's wrists, which were still cuffed together. It took Sam a moment to realize that, for once, someone was actually offering him a degree of freedom, and it was an opportunity he couldn't pass up—much to Godwinson's impatience.

Since he wasn't making progress with Sam, the old man tried to reason with the hunter. "Dean, we need to get him through the portal. We don't have much time."

The hunter was too busy testing the keys on the handcuffs to look up, but he still replied. "Where's Cas? We can't leave without him."

Godwinson scowled. "Don't be daft! Castiel knows the stakes. He would tell you to run!"

"Yeah, maybe," the hunter acknowledged. "But when do I ever listen?"

The cuffs sprang open, but Sam's relief was short-lived, for at that moment, the wall of fire was extinguished. As the smoke cleared, Lucifer came into view with a scathing expression on his angular face. In his right hand, he was dragging Castiel by the neck—the younger angel was on his knees, clutching his brother's wrist, but too weak to free himself.

"Going somewhere?" the devil asked, extending his left hand towards the portal and clenching his fist. The radiant crack in the air slammed shut, and the humans were decidedly trapped. Running was never an option—not with the Men of Letters—but choosing to stay would have dire consequences, and Sam found himself trembling in dread.

Satisfied, Lucifer surveyed his enemies. "Now then… where were we?"

Suddenly, without warning, a flash of blinding light filled the room, centering on the angels. Sam clamped his eyes shut and turned away, unable to explain the pit in his stomach. Obviously, someone set off a banishing sigil, and he knew from experience that archangels were susceptible, but this time… Sam had a sinking feeling it might not work.

And sure enough, when the light burned out, Lucifer remained—albeit flustered from the exertion it took to hang on. Cas, however, was nowhere to be seen, and despite the hunter next to him, Sam felt his friend's absence like a fresh weight on his shoulders. He was alone.

Gradually, all eyes turned to the side of the room, where a certain demon was standing with his palm pressed against the side of a balcony support column. Recognizing his failure, he grimaced apprehensively. "Bollocks."

Lucifer, on the other hand, chuckled in amusement. "Nice try, Crowley… But I'm stronger now." Or so he claimed. A slight waver in his voice suggested otherwise, and the hunter noticed.

"You _were_ stronger," he challenged. "When you had the stone of heaven to feed on. But it's still with Cas, and he could be on the other side of the world by now."

Lucifer wasn't fazed. "That's a fair point, Dean, but so what? Who's left to threaten me? A swarm of librarians?" He held up his hand and curled his fingers, which caused the remaining Men of Letters to gasp for breath. Sam watched in alarm as they all sank to their knees, clearly choking… because of him. Lucifer sneered. "Good riddance, if you ask me." As he waited for them to asphyxiate, he glanced back at the demon. "Stick around, Crowley. When Sam's ready to consent, he'll need your blood."

The very thought made Sam nauseous, and he groaned. "Oh, God…"

The hunter next to him gripped his arm. "Sam, listen to me," he whispered quickly. "Those swords over there…" He nodded towards the fallen weapons that had been used by the strange group of warriors in their attempt to kill Lucifer. "I think they're angel swords. They might be able to hurt the bastard." He shrugged. "It's worth a shot anyway. I'll distract him."

He didn't wait for Sam to reply, but immediately jumped to his feet and stormed towards the devil. "You know, I finally figured out whose meat suit you're riding—hard to recognize without the purple hair. Vince Vincente? Really? And here I thought you had some pride."

Lucifer scoffed. "Don't like it? That's okay. I didn't choose him to impress you; I chose him to impress Sam."

Vince Vincente was one of the first musicians—if not the first—that Sam discovered on his own as a child in the 80s, without the input of his… of his father. In hindsight, the rock star never made any groundbreaking contributions to his industry, but he still had a loyal fan base, and at the time, Sam found him inspirational. If Lucifer knew that… if he went after Vince because of that… then Sam was directly responsible for anything that happened to the man.

In a cold, angry voice, the hunter spat, "I think you're done messing with Sam's head."

Strange how much the hunter seemed to care… Who was he? How did he know Cas?

"Oh, Dean…" Lucifer taunted. "I'm still warming up."

At that, the hunter threw a punch, socking the devil in the face. Lucifer fell back a step, inadvertently releasing his hold on the Men of Letters. They all gasped, heaving for breath, but Lucifer didn't seem to care. His attention was fixed on the hunter. "I'm not going to kill you, Dean. Not before Sam consents. I want him to feel the life draining out of you." The hunter punched him again, knocking him back another few steps. "But don't forget… Angels can heal you vermin." The next time the hunter punched him, Lucifer blocked the attack and swiftly grabbed his arm, dislocating it from his shoulder. The hunter shouted—a sound that deeply distressed Sam—as Lucifer roughly dropped him to the ground and proceeded to kick him in the gut.

"NO!" Sam was immediately on his feet, disregarding the pain of his injuries to charge at the devil. He didn't know why, but he had to get Lucifer away from the hunter.

Of course, the son of a bitch saw him coming and waved his arm out to the side. An unseen force swept Sam off his feet and tossed him across the room. He landed heavily on the stone floor, groaning miserably. They weren't going to survive this…

A dark presence loomed over him like a shadow, and he glanced up to see the devil gazing down at him. He shuddered, exposed and vulnerable, with nowhere to go.

"Hey there, roomie…" Lucifer beckoned to Sam with his hand, which telekinetically yanked him to his knees. "You're not looking so good. When's the last time you had any sleep?" Sam shrank back as Lucifer knelt in front of him, but the devil wouldn't let him retreat. Face to face, they stared at each other with profound intensity. A small smile tugged at the devil's mouth, and he brushed Sam's cheek—his touch cold and obscene. "There's no point rejecting me. Just look around. No one can protect you. No one can protect your friends. And if you don't surrender, I'll destroy everything. I'll burn it to the ground. This world'll be nothing but ash. Say yes, and I'll show mercy."

"No…" Sam shook his head, heart pounding. "I don't believe you."

Unconcerned, Lucifer traced Sam's jawline with his fingers. "Have it your way." He seized Sam's chin and jerked his head to the side, leaning in to observe the Somnus Inhibitor. He was so close, Sam could feel his breath on his face. "Let's just take care of this…" With his other hand, Lucifer plucked the device from Sam's temple—the pain made him wince. His vision blurred. "There…" Lucifer let go, grinning maliciously. "Now then… why don't you get some shut-eye? I'll finish up here, and by the time you wake, we'll be somewhere nice and cozy…" He slowly lifted his hand towards Sam's forehead. "Pleasant dreams, bunk buddy."

Sam's eyes widened.

At that moment, the hunter appeared towering behind Lucifer. He was brandishing a long, three-sided blade, and the next thing Sam knew, he was plunging it in the devil's back. Lucifer stiffened, caught off guard and obviously hurt. His eyes turned red, but he didn't light up with the holy radiance of a dying angel. He was injured, but not fatally. Damn.

Still, it was enough to make his head fall back. His mouth dropped open, and his essence poured out in a stream of blazing white energy. With no other vessel to occupy, he soared upwards and disappeared through the ceiling.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	25. Lost Memories

**SPN**

They did it… Somehow… They beat back the devil.

Sitting on his heels, Sam tried to process this unexpected reprieve. It wasn't a win—Lucifer had killed too many people, including children, and while he might be injured, he was still out there. Sooner or later, he would try again. But for the moment, he was off the board, and Sam was…

Sam was alone.

A chill ran down his spine. He quickly scanned the room. Bodies were scattered everywhere, but among them, several survivors were catching their breaths, nursing their wounds, and staring at Sam—not with gratitude, but condescension. Crowley lurked in the distance, a familiar face, but hardly comforting, and without Castiel, Sam was surrounded by antagonists. He couldn't trust any of them. Nothing had changed.

Except… a strange man was hovering over him, dressed in hunting clothes. He had short dark hair, sharp green eyes, and a worried expression on his weathered face. He looked vaguely familiar, but the more Sam tried to recall his name, the more his identity slipped away. He couldn't remember… and for some reason, that made him anxious. He trembled, gazing up at the man uncertainly.

Whoever he was, he slowly crouched down and inched his way forward. "It's okay," he said softly when Sam shrank back. "I'm a friend. You're bleeding. I just want to look." He reached for Sam's face and gently turned his head, grimacing in pain as he appraised the damage done by the Somnus Inhibitor. Sam didn't know how bad it was… It hurt, but so did the rest of his body.

"You're gonna be just fine," the stranger told him, obviously lying. Sam was anything but fine… and the stranger was doing a poor job masking his unsettlement.

"Dean…" Godwinson's voice was hoarser than ever as he shuffled towards the two younger men. "The… the Som… Somnus Inhibitor… We… we must… reapply it…"

Sam tensed while the stranger growled. "Stay the hell away from us, you son of a bitch. Before you royally screw up again."

"Dean…" As Godwinson tried to make his case, more and more of the Brits were getting back on their feet, and Sam could tell they would never let him go. They were too full of themselves. Crap.

The stranger must have reached the same conclusion, for he suddenly turned around and focused on Crowley. His next five words chilled Sam to the bone. "Get us out of here." The demon obliged, snapping his fingers, and before Sam could even blink, he was somewhere else.

A hotel room. A nice one. More of a suite than a room, with a spacious kitchen and a luxurious sitting area. The carpet was clean and the windows featured elegant curtains with swag valances. The high ceiling was trimmed with crown molding, and a small fire was crackling calmly in a vintage fireplace. It would have been impressive if not for the king of hell.

Sam clambered to his feet, searching for a way out, but Crowley was standing in front of the door. True, when the situation called for it, they would occasionally join forces, but Sam would never trust the demon, especially when he was alone and weaponless. He had to escape!

"Sammy?" The green-eyed stranger also stood up, inconveniently blocking the door to the balcony. His shoulder was injured, and he was attempting to stabilize it with his good hand, but that didn't make him any less threatening. "It's okay, Sam. You're safe."

"Safe?" Sam limped backwards, into a corner. "You're friends with Crowley!"

The stranger groaned while the demon blinked in surprise. "You're just now figuring that out?"

"Shut up, Crowley!" the stranger snapped. "Something happened to him. He doesn't know who I am."

" _He wants to kill you…"_

Sam felt like he was spinning. His vision tunneled, and he fell against the wall. From somewhere deep inside him, a memory emerged… a memory of the stranger in a red Carhartt shirt with inky black eyes.

" _Smart, Sam! Locking the place down. Doors won't open. I get it. Bet here's the thing… I don't want to leave! Not 'till I find you!"_

He was evil. A demon. A knight of hell. Sam shivered—his clothes were getting damp from his sweat, which only made him that much colder. It wasn't natural, but nothing about his predicament was natural. He was trapped in a hotel with two dangerous bad guys. He had to get out!

Terrified, he made a break for the balcony, fully prepared to push his way past the stranger, but he didn't get far. Crowley made a gesture with his hand, and a powerful demonic current swept him off his feet. He was callously thrown into an extravagant bathroom, where he landed awkwardly on the hard tile. The door immediately slammed shut, and Sam had a horrible, sinking feeling that he was locked inside.

 **SPN**

"What the hell, Crowley!?" Dean stormed after his brother, glaring angrily at the demon. When he reached the bathroom door, he quickly tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge. "Let him out! Now!"

"Why?" Crowley asked, perfectly composed as he pulled out his phone and checked the screen. "What do you think happened to him? Lucifer's playing mind games, and if Sam bolts, we won't be able to perform the ritual to save him. I'm doing you a favor." He placed a call, putting the phone on speaker while Dean fumed.

Of course, the bastard had a point, but Dean didn't care. Between his dislocated shoulder and his bruised ribs, he wasn't in the mood for simple logic. His brother feared him… Dean saw the look in his eyes. Pure panic. Because of him. Not Crowley, but Dean. It was the worst feeling in the world, and he wanted someone to blame.

The call connected, and Castiel's voice blared from the other end. "Crowley, is that you!?"

"Expecting someone else?" the demon asked with a slight smirk. "I have to say, it's a good thing you texted me that SOS. Turns out banishing you and separating Lucifer from that emerald weakened him enough for us to make it out alive."

"Sam and Dean are with you?" the angel anxiously demanded. "They're okay?"

"We're a little beat up, Cas," Dean said, cutting into the conversation. "And Sam… Sam needs our help. We have to put this ritual behind us. Now."

"Of course," Cas agreed. "I'm in Texas, according to the road signs. I-35, mile marker 388."

"I'm on my way," Crowley informed him. "Be there in a flash." Hanging up the phone, he promptly disappeared.

Overwhelmed, Dean buried his face in his good hand. When this was all over, he would need one hell of a drink.

Moments later, the demon rematerialized with the angel in tow. When Cas saw Dean, his worried expression dissolved into compassion, and he silently reached out to rest his hand on the hunter's forehead. Warm, rejuvenating energy washed through his body, healing his shoulder, his ribs, and every other sore spot. He sighed in relief—one less thing to distract him from his brother.

Cas proceeded to survey their fancy surroundings. "Where's Sam?"

Crowley snapped his fingers, and Dean heard the lock click on the bathroom door. The time, when he tried the handle, it opened easily.

Inside, they were struck by the smell of blood. Sam had frantically sliced his palm with a razor blade and was now attempting to draw a devil's trap on the tile. Dean's heart stopped. Son of a bitch!

Sam looked up in horror—a deer in the headlights. "Stay away from me!" He scrambled backwards, putting as much distance between himself and his brother as he could. Dean clenched his fists. His natural response was always to protect the kid, and every fiber of his being urged him to rush to Sam's side, to stop the bleeding and mend his wounds. It took all his discipline to resist, and he glanced helplessly at Castiel.

"Do something. Please."

"Sam?" The angel stepped cautiously into the bathroom, treating the youngest Winchester like a skittish child. When Sam saw him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Cas?"

Dean exhaled, able to breathe again. Sam recognized the angel. Thank God for small favors.

"Sam, I need you to listen to me…" Cas stepped over the incomplete devil's trap and knelt in front of his friend. "I know you're scared, but now, more than ever, you have to trust me." Sam's agitated gaze shifted from the angel over to Dean and back again. Cas continued, "Lucifer has a claim on you, and he doesn't want us to sever it. Now, he can't control you, but he can tamper with your emotions. He wants you to panic. He wants you to run. That's how he's going to win, but you're stronger than he is, and if you're willing to trust me, we can free you from his influence. I promise."

Dean watched nervously as Sam considered the angel's words. If he could just focus on the real threat, they'd be okay. Otherwise… they would have to make him cooperate, and so soon after his ordeal with the Brits… Dean would hate himself. But they were out of options, and they were running out of time.

Fortunately, Sam had enough experience with the devil's tactics to accept what he was told. He jabbed his bloody palm with his good thumb, wincing in pain—a sight that made Dean tense—but then he nodded. "Whatever you're going to do, do it quickly. He's in my head."

"Just tune him out," Cas replied, grasping Sam's arm and supporting him as he climbed to his feet.

"Let's set up in the kitchen," Crowley suggested as they emerged from the bathroom. "I keep a well-stocked pantry. We should have everything we need."

They didn't dawdle, but hastened over to the island counter. Cas made Sam sit on a bar stool while Crowley formed a triangle with three red taper candles. Dean searched the cupboards for a crystal platter and a carton of salt.

"How'd you get this, anyway?" he asked as he positioned the platter in the middle of the candles and sprinkled the salt on top of it.

"What, the salt?" Crowley snapped his fingers and the candles lit up with golden flames. "Not all my minions have black eyes, and you never know when demon repellent will come in handy. I like to be prepared."

From the corner of his eye, Dean noticed Sam glancing back and forth between him and the carton he was holding. Suddenly, it all clicked. So _that's_ why he was afraid. _That's_ why he tried to paint a devil's trap with his own blood. Friggin' Lucifer. Dean dumped some extra salt in his palm for the kid's benefit. "I'm not a demon. Not anymore. I'm just a hunter."

Sam quickly turned apologetic. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't remember…"

"It's okay," Dean assured him, as much as it hurt. "We're gonna fix this. That's why we're here."

"The keepsakes go on the platter," Cas interrupted, fishing the stone of heaven from his trench coat pocket. It was time to get this show on the road.

Dean produced an old, wrinkled photo from his own pocket and set it down where instructed. When Sam saw the image, he caught his breath. It was them, with their mom, when they were younger. Sam was just a baby. Their mom held him to her face while Dean, four years old, stood next to them with an innocent smile.

Would Sam recognize the photo? There was no mistaking their mom, but if he couldn't remember having a brother, what would he make of the two small children? Would it still serve as a keepsake if it no longer carried special significance? Dean watched closely, trying to read Sam's expression—it was pure heartache and confusion. He knew he had lost something… but he didn't know what it was…

"Crowley, this may be a good time for you to step out," Cas abruptly told the demon. "The dispelling ritual involves purification, and you won't want to be here for that. You might be exorcized."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Why, Cas… Didn't know you cared." Smirking, he glanced at Dean. "Be sure to let me know when it's over." And just like that, he was gone.

Cas immediately focused on Sam. "This won't take long. When I finish the incantation, move the emerald out of the triangle. That will complete the ritual and dispel Lucifer from your subconscious."

 _If it works,_ Dean thought nervously. _Please, God, let it work._

"Let's begin," Cas said, taking the salt carton from Dean. He poured some on his hand, which he then sprinkled on Sam's head. _"Crux sacra sit mihi lux… Nunquam draco sit mihi dux… Vade retro Satana! Nunquam suade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas… Ipse venena bibas!"_

The angel nodded, and Sam reached for the stone of heaven. As he plucked it from the crystal platter, Dean couldn't help but wonder how the Men of Letters expected to pull this off while the kid was chained to a friggin' obelisk. What had they been thinking? Or was it all just a lie? Not that it mattered now.

When Sam placed the emerald on the counter, away from the candles, it began to glow with a strange, eerie light—as did the untouched photo. The flames all flickered, and a moment later, something dark and cold swept out of Sam's body. Dean couldn't see what it was exactly, but he felt it like a gust of wind.

The next thing he knew, Sam was toppling over, eyes closed.

Dean instinctively sprang forward, catching him just in time. "Whoa! Sammy?" He eased him onto the floor, where he held him in his arms. "Come on, Sammy… SAM!?" His brother was unconscious and didn't respond even when Dean shook him and tapped him on the face. "Crap…" Terrified, he turned towards Castiel. "What happened!?"

The angel sighed. "I'm sorry, Dean, but that's a question I can't answer. Either it worked… or it didn't… We'll just have to wait and see."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	26. Epilogue

**SPN**

Mick wasn't sure how long he'd been trapped in the old Campbell hunting compound, but it felt like hours, and it was getting claustrophobic. His cell was stripped of furniture, forcing him to choose between standing or sitting on the floor, and neither position was comfortable with his arms cuffed behind his back. Standing would have been more dignified, but honestly, who did he have to impress? He didn't expect anyone to rescue him. The Men of Letters wouldn't know where to look for him, and once they had custody of the Winchesters, the boys wouldn't be released—not until they proved themselves. More than likely, Mick would starve, all alone down here, long before they ever returned.

So it came as a welcome surprise when the heavy marine door was jerked open and Mary Winchester appeared in the threshold. Much to his relief, she didn't look scared or angry—just tired and possibly sad. Not wanting to provoke her, Mick sat perfectly still, waiting and watching.

Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice calm and steady. "As much as I want to make someone pay for everything your people have put my boys through, as far as I can tell, you're not guilty of anything but association. Now, I don't know about the Men of Letters, but I'm not a murderer… So I'm going to let you go."

Mick took a deep breath and clambered awkwardly to his feet. "I… I don't know what to say…" How do you thank someone for sparing your life when it should have been forfeit? Was this even real?

"There's nothing you can say to me," she warned him while producing a key from her pocket. He turned around, giving her access to his wrists, and she quickly disengaged the cuffs. "You should know, I heard from Dean. Apparently, Lucifer found a way to infiltrate your Academy."

Mick stiffened. "Not possible."

"Oh, it's very possible." She spoke with such assurance that his stomach dropped. "And from what I understand, it was bloody. First, he massacred your students. Then, he began slaughtering your elders, but luckily for them, his vessel wore out, and he had no choice but to retreat. So the next time you feel like offering your help… don't."

Mick's knees nearly buckled, and he thought he might throw up. Their students? Dead? He didn't want to believe it—denial was so much easier—but neither could he believe Mary would lie. She was a mother. She wouldn't use children against him—not like this.

Despite all his training, his eyes brimmed with tears.

A gentle hand touched his arm, and he found himself turning to face the cold, no-nonsense hunter. Only now, she seemed… almost kind.

"Come on," she said with surprising sympathy. "It's time to go."

 **SPN**

Sam was still asleep the next morning. Over the course of the night, Dean and Cas dressed his wounds and smuggled him out of the hotel, down to the parking lot, where they broke into a Chevy Equinox. The angel might not have use of his wings, but he could still tamper with security cameras and knock out anyone who crossed their path, and they were eager to put Crowley's extravagance behind them.

They drove swiftly to Lebanon, where they made a pit stop at the bunker. Dean left Sam in the SUV with Cas to run inside for some quick essentials. They couldn't stay… It was their home, but as long as the Men of Letters had access to it, the risks were simply too high. Dean hoped to find a way to change the locks, but for the moment, his only concern was Sam.

Packing up the Impala, he motioned for Cas to follow his lead. They drove separately for several miles, putting some distance between the bunker and the stolen vehicle. Then they pulled over, transferred Sam from the Equinox to the back seat of the Impala, and ditched the SUV on the side of the road. They began the long trip north to Sioux Falls, where they had a standing invitation to camp out at Jody's cabin—she even gave them a spare key.

Along the way, Dean called his mom, filled her in, and told her where to meet them. She promised to come as quickly as she could, but it would take awhile—the Campbell compound was over eight hundred miles to the east.

Waiting was by far the worst part—and not just waiting for his mom. Waiting for Sam to wake up… waiting to find out if the ritual worked… if he had his memory back… if life would ever be the same… Dean could hardly stand it! He wasn't a patient man, and the uncertainty left him restless and irritable.

"What if you tried to heal him?" he asked as they settled Sam on Jody's couch. "Wouldn't that let us know if he's free or not?"

The angel shook his head. "I wish it were that easy. But the fact is, Sam's undergoing a supernatural purification process, and healing him might cause interference. For now, it's best to let him be…"

And so they waited.

The sun rose gradually, but Dean barely noticed. Until his brother was safe, his world was dark.

 **SPN**

Drifting aimlessly in a calm, silent void where nothing seemed to exist, he lost track of time and awareness. Thoughts… feelings… sensations… they had no place here, and he wasn't cognizant to miss them. He could have been trapped for years, and he never would have known.

But he wasn't trapped for years, and suddenly, without warning, something inside him thawed. It was strangely pleasant—at first—and he smiled… only to grimace when it drew his attention to his agonized body. His head hurt, his chest stung… his hands… his leg… his foot… He had suffered such abuse—such torture—and the pain was persistent. He could possibly withdraw—the temptation to escape was strong—but then again…

The pain was real…

" _Look at me. Come on. You don't know what's real? Look man, I've been to Hell. Okay, I know a thing or two about torture. Enough to know that it feels different… than the pain of this, this regular, stupid, crappy, this."_

That voice…

He knew that voice. He missed it. Longed for it.

" _Hey… I am your flesh-and-blood brother, okay? I'm the only one who can legitimately kick your ass in real time. You got away. We got you out, Sammy."_

His brother…

Dean.

How could he forget Dean?

His chest tightened, and he groaned miserably, not from the pain, but from a deeper, more intense heartache. Of course, it made sense that Lucifer would block his memories of Dean. They were how he survived, how he coped with an unforgiving universe.

" _Believe in that! Believe me, okay? You gotta believe me, you gotta make it stone number one and build on it, you understand?"_

If Lucifer wanted to break him, of course he'd take away his foundation. But Sam should have been stronger. He should have held on. His memories were his lifeline—they allowed him to jump in the cage—to save the world. And Lucifer… Lucifer took that from him. Like he took everything. It was violating, and Sam felt sick.

He shook his head.

No…

He had to wake up.

To find his way back.

"Dean? … Dean! … DEAN!"

 **SPN**

When Sam began shouting his name, Dean wasn't sure how to respond. Panic or relief?

Panic. The kid was terrified.

"Sammy?" He barreled over to the couch and dropped to his knees, taking stock of his not-so-little brother. His eyes were closed, but he was shaking and fidgeting, in the throes of a nightmare. Dean impulsively reached for his shoulders. "Hey! Sammy, hey! It's okay! You're safe!" _Please, wake up…_

Sam jolted, and just like that, he was conscious—not to mention scared and disoriented. If Dean wasn't there to steady him, he might have tumbled to the floor.

"It's okay! I've got you!" Dean kept his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders as the kid anxiously surveyed their surroundings. "We're at Jody's. I promise, you're safe."

Sam focused briefly on Cas—who stood behind Dean, watching in concern—before looking back at his brother with a forlorn expression. "I'm sorry," he said in a ragged, remorseful voice. "I'm so, so sorry."

Dean wasn't sure why he was apologizing, but then again, with Lucifer's mind games, there could be any number of reasons. None of them mattered. "Come here…" He pulled Sam toward him, and wrapped him in his arms. The poor kid was tense—still shaking—but the longer Dean held him, the more he managed to relax. It was over. Thank God. The danger was behind them, and they were finally together. Sam's head settled on Dean's shoulder. He returned the embrace, and they shared a warm, comforting moment of relief.

 **SPN**

Of course, it wasn't really over. Not yet. They still had a lot to figure out—like what to do about Lucifer, the bunker, and the stone of heaven… But those were problems for another day. First, they had to recuperate, and when Cas was satisfied that Sam was back to normal, he quickly healed the young hunter. Then, while Dean checked the fridge for some much-needed beer, Sam checked their luggage for different clothes. When he found a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, he disappeared into the bedroom.

Dean wasn't thrilled to lose sight of his brother, but he was suddenly distracted by a knock on the cabin door. He froze, caught off guard and painfully unsure of himself. He had known she was coming, but that didn't mean he was ready to face her.

"Dean?" her voice called out. "It's me! Are you there?"

When Cas saw him hesitate, he took charge, making his way across the room to let her in. Mary Winchester. Dean's mom. Amara's gift. Apparently what he needed most. So why did her appearance fill him with such gut-wrenching sorrow?

" _Mom… w-what are you trying to say?"_

" _I have to go… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… I just need a little time… I love you… I love you both…"_

She left them. And she would leave again, just like dad. He should have seen the signs.

But for now, she stepped into the cabin with an urgent, protective posture. When she glimpsed her firstborn, she quickly started towards him. "Dean! Are you okay?" They hugged, but he couldn't hide his reservations, which she obviously discerned. Taking a step back, she studied him thoughtfully. "I would do anything for you. I hope you know that."

He tried to answer, but words failed him.

"Mom?" Sam emerged from the bedroom, looking hopeful. And then, for the first time in days, he smiled. "Hi!"

She glanced over at him, and her face softened. "Oh, Sammy…" They practically raced to each other, and a heartbeat later, Sam was eagerly enveloping her in his arms. For someone so tall, he looked so absurdly innocent—a child desperate for his mom's affection.

Dean loved them. He loved them both, more than he could fathom. They were his family… No matter how complicated their lives might be, he would keep them safe. And he wasn't alone.

As Sam whispered some more apologies—for God knows what—Dean's gaze drifted towards Castiel. When their eyes met, the angel nodded. They were in this together, and no matter what the future had in store—whether it was Lucifer, the Men of Letters, or something else entirely—they would protect their family.

Always.

 _ **The End!**_

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for your support. It's been a pleasure, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. However, it might be some time before I start another… My baby's due in August, and I need to focus on my family. But I wish you all the best, and hope to hear from you soon._


End file.
